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MARMONUALE 



AND OTHEB 



POEMS. 



BY 



SHELDON S. BAKEK. 



' Twere vain to tell the motley throng 
Hozv, from supremest grief and wrong. 

Our breakitig heart the notes had learn d 
That trembled into plaintive song. 



NEW yoek: 

HURST & CO., Publishers, 

1883. 



, <t^H OF CG 

OCT 23 188: 



COPYRIGHT. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, l)y 
Sheldon S. Bakek, in the office of the Librarian of Congress at 
Washington, D. C. 



NEW YORK : 

Concord Co-operative Printing Company, Limited, 

47 and 49 Centre Street. 



ENCYCLICAL. 



At tie age of seventy-four years^ I find 
myself alone in the ivorld. Being too feeble 
for business or labor, I have felt it my duty 
not to tvaste the particles of time; thei^efore, 
I have occupied the jMSsing hours in record- 
ing my thoughts, ichich I have endeavored to 
clothe with simple language, that the subjects 
and sentiments presented may be the better 
appreciated by the great middle class of hu- 
manity, to ivhom this volume is respectfully 
dediccUed, 

And should the thoughts recorded here 
Serve but to please and entertain, 

It will my lonely moments cheer 
To know I've written not in vain. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Marmondale, A Tale of the Sunny South 1 

A Thought ^. 100 

Eveolean, A Tale of the Kevolution 101 

A Farmer Should Stick to His Farm 157 

A Brand from the Burning 1G8 

The Tramp 172 

Retribution 177 

Immortality 186 

The Cottage on the Grange 189 

Niagara 192 

Invocation 194 

Lake Cossayuna 196 

The Lost Mother 198 

The Acme of Misery 201 

Love Undying 203 

Vale Glenmore 205 

Die Young 207 

We Have Met 209 

We Need the Men , . . . . 212 

My Cousin's Letter 214 

The Vision of Glenmore 220 

The Poet's Dream 228 

The Crisis Proof Scheme of National Finance 232 



MARMONDALE: 

A TALE OF THE SUNNY SOUTH, 



.CHAPTER ONE. 

T. 

The sunny South, the land of flowers — 
Where Autumn clasps the hand of Spring 

And Summer reigns in rosy bow'rs 
Amid her gorgeous offering 

Of cotton-bloom and golden grain — 

My harp for thee now wakes the strain. 

II. 

And if my muse, in plaintive song, 

Should wake sad mem'ries of the past, 

And thrill some throbbing heart too strong, 
Remember, shadows are not cast 

Where falls no sunshine and no light, 

And understand my story right. 



Z MARMONDALE. 

III. 

Where rolls the Santee's swelling tide 
In grandeur to the deep blue sea, 

By tributaries there supplied — 
Fair Congaree and Wateree — 

Its northern banks flood widely o'er, 

Leave high and dry its southern shore^ 

IV. 

Upon that side its current deep 
Has worn a smooth and rocky line 

Where, high upon the frowning steep, 
Stand cedars and the waving j)ine : 

A requiem singing to the blast. 

Of tragedy in days long past. 



Ado wn the sunny slope are seen 
The ruins of a mansion fair, 

Embower'd in groves of evergreen ; 
Its lofty chimneys standing bare, 

Hising above its granite base. 

Reveal the grandeur of the place. 



MARMONDALE 



VI. 



Tlie cedar and the spreading palm 

Tlieir graceful branches there entwine, 

And gently wave beneath the calm 
Majestic moon and stars ihat shine. 

And trailing vines, by breezes swayed, 

Cast on the walls their somber shade. 

YTT. 

They rustle in the midnight gloom — 
And o'er the scene a wizard spell 

Falls gently, as the flowers bloom. 
Or 'mid the raging tempest's swell : 

Their voices whisper, Gone ! all gone! 

And zephyrs sigh, Alone ! alone ! 

VIII. 

And near, where cedars circle round, 
Forget-me-not and myrtle strays. 

Is seen a spot of hallow'd ground 

Where sleep the dead of former days — 

And there the weeping willow waves 

O'er fallen stones, by sunken graves. 



4 MARMONDALE. 

CHAPTER TWO. 
I. 
A century has passed away 

Since Duncan Yale from England came 
And, settling there in early day, 

Had mark'd his bounds, and laid his claim 
Within that wooded idle wild 
Whereon the God in nature smil'd. 

II. 

The forest fell'd, the ground he clear'd 
And mansion built of wood and stone, 

To English plans and style adher'd. 

And made the grandest dwelling known, 

With stately porches rang'd around 

And roof with lofty turrets crown' d. 

III. 
His wide-spread park had Nature made. 

The trees all planted by her hand. 
So when he clear'd the place, he bade 

The woodman let the choicest stand ; 
And game in plenty rambled there, 
Erom nimble deer to timid hare. 



MARMONDALE. 



IV. 



Within his park a church he rear'd 

Whose bells rang out in sweetest chime, 

Whenever sabbath-morn appear'd 
Or in the merry Christmas-time. 

Near by the rectory was seen 

Within a grove of evergreen. 

V. 

And there stood Duncan Vale's abode 

Where Nature, taste and wealth combin'd 

With flowers, founts and streams, that flow'd, 
To please the most fastidious mind ; 

And there the mirror' d lake was found 

And on the cliff the Tourney-ground. 

VI. 

Down, where the cooling waters flowed 
Clear from the rock with gurgling sound, 

The negroes in their neat abode. 

Encircled round the spring, were found ; 

The elder clothed, the younger nude — • 

A mode in Southern servitude. 



6 MARMONDALE. 

YII. 

There uncle C?esar, old and gra^^, 

Attended to the cotton-gin ; 
Aunt Phillis sat the live-long day 

And carded cotton-bats to spin, 
And Dicy wove and Dilcy spun 
From early morn till set of sun. 

VIII. 

From thence to fields of golden grain 
The tawny reapers took their way ; 

The binders follow'd in their train 
And dar'd not let the harvest lay. 

To shock each sheaf they did not fail 

When "more wet" j^iped the whistling quail. 



CHAPTER THREE. 

I, 



How often in my youthful days 
I've roam'd to this deserted place, 



MAKMONDALE. 7 

Upon its crumbling walls to gaze, 

Its ancient plans to clearly trace, 
And deem'd each grass-grown walk and fielu 
Some ancient relic, held conceal' d. 

II. 

Still later, in romantic mood, 

Resolv'd to yiew the scene at night 

And, starting through the tangled wood, 
The ruin reached while it was light. 

And where its gloomy shadows lay 

I mus'd until the dawn of day. 

III. '■ 

The zephyrs snapp'd the waving corn 
As twilight clos'd upon the scene, 

And through the night till early morn 
The elements remain'd serene. 

The sky was clear, and brightly down 

The stars upon the landscape shone. 

lY. 

The bell within the old church-tow'r 
Toll'd out the solemn hour of night, 



8 MAKMONDALE. 

And Nature, in her grandest pow'r, 

Keposed in calm and mellow liglit 
Till on the fields of rip'ning grain 
Bright Phoebus woke the morn again. 

Y. 

The prospect from the mansion-door 

Was one unbroken wilderness 
Of cypress and of sycamore 

Thro' which the Santee's waves would press 
And murmur, gliding through the yale. 
Adieu! adieu! to Marmondale. 

VI. 

For such a name the owner gave 
His lately wooded gem of earth ; 

A manor-name he sought to save 
To ancestry of noble birth, 

So when his friends from England came 

They found his home in name the same. 

VII. 

By him and Mattie, whom he made 
His youthful bride and loving wife, 



MARMONDALE. 

The finest taste- liad been display'd 

In fitting up a home for life ; 
And nothing equal at that date 
Was found in the Palmetto State. 

VIII. 

There bloom'd a flower, bright and fair, 
And blossom'd into womanhood. 

The idol of this loving pair, 

The pure, the beautiful and good, 

Sweet Ellen Yale, their only child, 

Who oft her parents' hearts beguiled. 

IX. 

Her voice rang out so sweet and clear 
Amid the pealing organ's swell. 

Like birds in spring-time of the year, 
Or to a lute-like cadence fell. 

In accents chanted, clear and strong, 

Or sung in sweet and plaintive song. 

X. 

But how describe the beauty rare 
That glow'd upon her youthful face ? 



10 MAEMONDALE. 

Witli wliicli nauglit eartlily could compare, 

Nor gifted limner even trace 
The ruby lips on rows of pearls, 
Bright azure eyes, or fair brown curls. 

XI. 

Upon her brow of spotless white 

The intellect had set its seal. 
And all her features, sunny-bright, 

A noble presence did reveal. 
Her faultless form and sylphlike grace 
In beauty equal'd her fair face. 

XII. 

From early childhood she had known 
The wisest teachings and control, 

And by those teachings she had grown 
Perfected both in mind and soul; 

With views enlarg'd, pure and refin'd, 

To deeds of charity inclin'd. 



MARMONDALE. 11 

CHAPTEK FOUR. 
I. 

And here we draw the veil aside, 
Disclose an actress in the scene 

Of equal pow'r and peerless pride — 
A reigning belle, of beauty queen, 

Who had become in early life 

A loving bride, Lord Landon's wife. 

n. 
Through dissipation's mad career 

He entered on the downward course. 
And, fleeing from him, she came here, 

Regain' d her spirits and her force ; 
As widow pass'd at Marmondale, 
The governess of Ellen Vale. 

III. 

Five years at court had lent a grace 
To ev'ry word and ev'ry move ; 

The sweet expression of her face 

Would change from look of deepest love 

To look that prov'd all language vain 

Its real meaning to explain. 



12 MAliMONDALE. 

IV. 

Her raven tresses pearls confin'd, 
And sweet dark eyes of S23arkling jet, 

Above wliere rose and lily join'd, 
'Tween long, dark, silent laslies set, 

'Neatli brows, well parted, arching o'er, 

K-eveal'd a soul of grandest pow'r. 



Her lips, wliicli youthful tint retain'd. 
On rows of perfect pearls were laid ; 

They gave the wisdom she had gain'd, 
But no malevolent look display'd ; 

When slander's damning darts were hurl'd, 

With slight contempt and scorn were curl'd. 

VI. 

She lov'd and, as the future prov'd, 
Lov'd one not wisely but too well, 

And by that love was often mov'd 
The secret of her life to tell. 

But knew no guilt was hers, and so 

She let the sad disclosure go : 



MARMONDALE. 13 



VII. 



That not by death had she been freed 
From him who claim'd her as his wife, 

Was left by him in deepest need 
And to a melancholy life, 

Till she, at last, the law enforc'd 

And duly from him was divorced. 

A^III. 

Now settl'd in her new-found home, 
Hemoved from scenes of trial past. 

Her spirits rose from out the gloom 
And shadows, lately o'er them cast. 

And reveled in the rosy light 

As morning dawns from darkest night. 

IX. 

With Ellen Yale — her only care, 
A lov'ly, fair and artless child — 

She liv'd a life of pleasure there. 
Where all around in beauty smiled; 

She dreamt not of a fate, in store 

For her, more bitter than before. 



M MAEMONDALE. 

CHAPTEE FIVE. 
I. 

One afternoon a stranger came — 

A servant met him at tlie gate 
And, wlien to him lie gave liis name, 

He said : "Alight, sir, do not wait ! 
My master waits you at the door, 
I'll see yoiu' horse provided for." 

II. 
With winning grace the stranger said 

To Duncan Vale : " My name's Antone. 
By business to your place I'm led, 

To me a region quite unknown ; 
And this seems like a fairy-land — 
I'm glad to take jou by the hand." 

III. 
" 'Tis not a fairy-land, yet fair 

To one whose home has long been here," 
Said Duncan Yale with pleasant air, 

And greeted him with friendly cheer. 
" So treach'rous has my mem'ry grown 
Of late — your name ?" " Avard Antone." 



MAEMONDALE. 15 



IV. 



" My wife and daughter, sir, and liere 
Is Lady Landon, Ellen's friend, 

To Marmondale, our home so dear. 

Their sweetest charms and graces lend ; 

We welcome you to this our home — 

From what fair country do you come?" 

V. 

" From old Virginia's sunny clime, 
Which name of old Dominion claims ; 

My ancestry, in olden time. 
At Jamestown settl'd, on the James. 

Hard by, where ebbs and flows the tide. 

On my plantation I reside. 

VI. 

I'm glad to meet you, Madame Vale, 
Miss Ellen, Lady Landon, too ; 

And should you hear the wondrous tale 
Of games and pleasures we pursue — 

The chase, the turf, the tourney grand — 

In my fair, happy native land, 



16 MAEMONDALE. 

vn. 

I may in future hope to see 

You at my home, called Antone Hall, 
The home my father left to me ; 

And there I hope to meet you all, 
When all your pastimes here shall fail 
At your sweet home, fair Marmondale. 

YIII. 

But different from your grand domain 
You'll find my home and place of birth • 

My park is corn, my flow'rs are grain — 
Still 'tis the loveliest spot on earth, 

More dear than all the world beside ; 

For there my parents liv'd and died." 

IX. 

Said Madame Vale : " We're pleased to hear 
The quaint description of yoar place. 

And that you chiefly hold it dear 
Because of love of kin and race. 

For filial love, a virtue rare, 

Outshines all gems that one can wear.'* 



MARMONDAUE. 17 

CHAPTEE SIX. 
I. 
Tlie sentiment, by her express'cl, 

By Lady Landon was approv'd ; 
She, next in turn, Antone address' d 

And spoke of sports and games she lov'd — 
Yes, lov'd them all, but was content 
"With one, that was the tournament. 

II. 
" When in my own dear native land, 

I was not driven to a choice, 
With all of them at my command 

Could all enjoy, in all rejoice ; 
But here a sad recluse I've grown 
Shut out from all the world — alone." 

III. 
"But not alone — you're here with me," 

Said Ellen in her pleasant way. 
" Think, how much happiness we see : 

We walk, we ride, we sing, we play. 
We write, we read and, when we're done. 
We go to bed half hour by sun," 



18 MARMONDALE. 

IV. 

"But, Ellen dear, you shall not use 
Sucli language or sucli negro-phrase, 

"Which Mr. Antone will excuse — 

She sometimes with her servant plays 

And will converse with her in turn 
And so these negro-phrases learn.'* 

V. 

"'Tis often so — in youth I knew 

One case in point, and that my own; 

I used them all my boyhood through, 
In manhood, too," replied Antone. 

*' My class-mates oft corrected me 

While at the university." 

VI. 

"But, Mr. Yale, to business now! 

My force at home is very great — 
A part might quickly clear and plough 

A fine, large quarter in your state. 
I wish to purchase, send some here — 
Have you, sir, any lands to spare?" 



MARMONDALE. 19 



VII. 



"I have, indeed," said Mr. Yale, 
"Lands of the finest quality, 

And there are other lands for sale 
In larger tracts, adjoining me ; 

And in the morning, when 'tis cool, 

We'll take a ride and see them all." 



CHAPTER SEVEN. 
I. 

The morning fair, at break of day. 
Their horses, saddled at the door, 

They mounted and then rode away ; 
At Marmondale were seen no more 

Until the sun had sunk to rest 

Beyond the flow'ry prairies west. 

II. 

Returning they were pie as' d to find 
The ladies in fine spirits there ; 



20 MARMONDALE. 

And Antone, not to beauty blind, 

Thought Lady Landon still more fair, 
Arrayed in robes of purest white, 
Than she appear' d the previous night. 

III. 

And Madame Vale was pleased to find 
That Antone's hopes were realiz'd : 

A tract he'd found to suit his mind, 
With qualities he highly priz'd. 

He deem'd the most essential things 

Good soil and timber, streams and springs. 

IV. 

So swiftly time had pass'd away 
That Antone did not think it late 

And ask'd Miss Ellen if she'd play, 
His love for music was so great. 

"Please, Lady Landon, join in song ; 

The evening's short but time is long." 

V. 

"Sing, Ellen dear, 'Long live the King,' " 
Said Lady Landon, "I will join." 



MARMONDALE. 21 

" It matters not what song you sing 

Since we've defeated John Burgoyne," 
Eeplied Antone. "I've little choice 
Of words in song, but tone of voice." 

VI. 

In sweetest strains and purest tone 

She sang the song, in childhood learn'd ; 

Her eyes with deep affection shone, 
Lit up the altar where love burn'd 

Into the core of human hearts, 

Accessible to Cupid's darts. 

VII. 

As seraphs sing to saints in light 

And angels sweep their harps of gold, 

To give the pure in heart delight — 
So was a nation's anthem roU'd 

From Lady Landon's lips the while, 

A mundane spirit to beguile. 

VIII. 

" Now, Ellen, sing my favorite," 
Said Mr. Yale, " ' Eobbin Adair.' 



22 MARMONDALE. 

I'm quite fatigued, 'tis growing late, 
Soon to our lodgings we'll repair." 
She sang the song that he desir'd. 
With sweet " good night " they all retired. 



CHAPTEE EIGHT. 
I. 

" I go to rest, but not to sleep,'* 
Mused Avard Antone at the door, 

For on his mind impressions deep, 
Such as he'd never known before. 

Were made and now possessed his soul 

And held him in complete control. 

11. 

" I never thought," he said, " to find 
A gem of such perfection here — 

The graces all in one combin'd ! 
A voice so sweet ; her diction, clear 

In conversation and in song. 

Would charm one for a whole life long. 



MARMONDALE. 23 

ni. 

To win her love, her heart and hand 
I would one-half my wealth resign ; 

This beauty, with a title grand, 

With all her charms would then be mine. 

My homo a paradise would be, 

Should Lady Landon marry me." 

IV. 

While wrapp'd in sleep, two angels came, 
Both dress'd in robes of snowy white ; 

One held aloft a torch aflame, 
The other scroll and pen to write. 

He seiz'd the scroll and wrote his name — 

The vision vanish'd into flame. 

V. 

Though superstition's deadly blight 

Had never fallen on Antone, 
When starting, waken' d in affright, 

He in his chamber mus'd alone 
On the appalling vision, sent 
As token of some sad event. 



24 MARMONDALE. 

VI. 

The morning sun rose clear and bright 
Upon the blooming landscape there, 

It swept the dewy tears of night 
From grassy lawn and flowers fair, 

From lilies white, in vases grown. 

Where fountains sparkle in the sun. 

VII. 

The dew-drop trembled in the rose 
And, fainting, fell beneath the heat ; 

The cotton-blooms began to close. 
And sportive lambkins feebly bleat ; 

The kine, that cropp'd the tender blade. 

Now ceas'd to roam and sought the shade. 

VIII. 

The fish that sported in the streams 
A refuge sought 'neath shelving shore 

From glaring light of Sol's bright beams, 
Or hied where plunging cascades roar. 

There, 'neath the cool descending spray, 

The listless angler spent the day. 



MARMONDALE. 25 



IX. 



From early morn the baying hound 
Pursued the track of timid hare ; 

Each on their passage round and round, 
By heat o'ercome, lay prostrate there. 

And sable sons the banjo played 

At cabin door beneath the shade. 



CHAPTER NINE. 

I. 

When Antone rose and went below, 
He thought to leave at once for home 

And not let Lady Landon know 

The late resolve to which he'd come. 

But, going out to take the air, 

Met her and Ellen walking there. 

II. 

He said to them : *'I'm quite surprised 
At meeting you so early here." 



26 MARMONDALE. 

"It is no plan of late clevis'd, 

It's been my custom throngli tlie year,'* 
Said Lady Landon, "and you see 
It suits my ward as well as me. 

III. 

" We've taken now our usual round, 

And in that rustic rosy bow'r 
On your return we may be found, 

At least until the breakfast hour ; 
Then tardiness would be a crime, 
So, Mister Antone, be in time." 

lY. 

" But would my Lady think me rude, 

If in the future," said Antone, 
"I write her from my solitude 

When she shall know me as I'm known? 
And would my missives answers win, 
That facts and fancies revel in?" 

V. 

"Responses, yes! and fancies too! 

But facts, you know, are stubborn things ; 



MARMONDALE. 27 



Upon receipt of sucli from you 

I'll give the answer fancy brings. 
Tlie facts perhaps I may retain 
Until I see you here again." 

YI. 

"But 'Lady Lanclon' sounds so cold, 
It chills me when that name I hear, 

And if she will not think me bold, 
I would it change for one more dear ; 

The name, attach' d to infancy, 

Sounds sweeter far to you and me." 

VII. 

"Then call me Alice, if you will, 
The name my mother gave to me. 

Or Alie, which is sweeter still — 
They called me that across the sea. 

But here, as in my native land, 

Some think my empty title grand." 

YIII. 

" Yes," mused he, " Alie, Antone s wife 
And mistress too of Antone Hall— 



28 MARMONDALE. 

To me more clear than light or life — 

But she the dearest of tliem all. 
I love nicknames, yet mine discard, 
For Ave's too short — call me Avard." 

IX. 

" O governess ! a pearl I've found, 
Deep in a morning-glory's cell ! 

And roses, too ! all diamond crown'd ! 
But where," said Ellen, "I'll not tell, 

For you have said that wealth conceal'd 

Was always partially reveal'd." 



CHAPTER TEN. 
I. 

Antone return'd in time to see 
The ladies to the breakfast-room. 

And all seem'd happy there, till he 
Sent out the order to the groom 

To bring his horse 'round to the door, 

As he would leave in half an hour. 



MAEMONDALE. 29 



II. 



Then, leaving funds with Mister Yale, 
Eeqnested liim to buy the land 

Which in this section was for sale 
And perfect titles to demand. 

" The deeds," he said, " may here remain 

With you until I come again." 

HI. 

Then Mister Yale press'd him to stay 
And spend the Sabbath-day with them. 

" The church," he said, " not far away 
Within my park, is quite a gem ; 

The rector, a fine Englishman, 

Is doing all the good he can." 

IV. 

His guest thank' d him for favors shown. 
And begged him payment to receive 

For all the business to be done ; 
He then prepared to take his leave, 

Shook hands with all, bade them good-day, 

Mounted his horse and rode away. 



30 MARMONDALE. 

V. 

" But why did Antone leave so soon ?' 
Said Lady Landon, " tell us why?" 

" He may perhaps have weary grown 
Of southern life and southern sky," 

Eeplied Miss Ellen with arch smile, 

Yet knew the reason all the while. 

VI. 

*' Had he remain'd till he had made 
A closing bargain for his land, 

He might have by and by display'd 
His pow'r to win a lady's hand. 

Your phrase is apt, now he is gone : 

* Shut out from all the world — alone.' 

■VII. 

As Antone now is on his way, 
liet's bid adieu to scenes so fair. 

And his immense estate survey 
Before our hero reaches there. 

Dear reader, will you with us roam 

And view an old Virginia home ? 



MARMONDALE. 31 

CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

I. 
Where flows tlie James iu grandeur clown, 

To mingle with old ocean's tide — 
Its waters, glitt'ring in the sun, 

As vessels on its bosom glide, 
While from its shores spread far awaj 
Its fertile fields in early day. 

II. 
Naught, in the old Dominion seen, 

Surpass'd this garden-spot of earth 
In golden grain and meadows green. 

Its owners, of superior birth, 
Liv'd there in splendid mansions, rear'd 
When first the forests disappear'd. 

III. 
And there, more prominent than all. 

In more capacious, massive style, 
'Neath spreading oaks stood Antone Hall — 

A grand substantial wooden pile. 
With broad verandas, lattic'd o'er. 
And lofty porches at each door. 



32 MARMONDALE. 



IV. 



At either end two chimneys stood — 
Like huge iDilaster-columns were — 

That fitted to the walls of wood 
Up to the roof, then rose 'mid air ; 

And creeping vines their ccf^'ring made 

From base to roof and balustrade. 

V. 

With massive entrance, stately halls 
And ample parlors on each side, 

The lofty, whiten'd, stucco'd walls 
And folding-doors the rooms divide. 

And ev'ry room, where fire was placed^ 

A quaintly carv'd wood-mantehgrac'd. 

VI. 

And furniture of ancient date, 
Imported from a foreign land 

By owners of this vast estate, 

"Was there dispens'd with lib'ral handj 

Upholster'd in a somber hue 

Of silk, brocade and velvet too. 



MAKMONDALE. 33 



YII. 



In richly cary'd and gilded frames 

The full-length Antone portraits stood, 

And ancestry of divers names 
Hung 'round in silent solitude ; 

By master hands, of subjects fam'd, 

Italian origin proclaim' d. 



CHAPER TWELYE. 

I. 

This princely home and broad domain 
With wealth of grain and stock on hand, 

Together with a num'rous train 
Of servants, rear'd upon the land, 

Was all bequeath'd by sire to son 

And only child, Avard Antone. 

II. 

We shall endeavor now to trace 
Some charact'ristics of the man— 



34 MARMONDALE. 

His ancestry, liis name and race 

That early plac'cl liim in the van 
In grand old days of chivalry 
And southern hospitality : 

ni. 

His amjDle brow was shaded o'er 
With glossy ringlets, dark as night ; 

His eyes a sweet exj)ression wore. 
Yet sparkled with mysterious light 

That oft disclosed the hidden fire 

Of slight, resentment or desire. 

IV. 

An athlete, trained to exercise 
In games and sports of ev'ry kind 

That wealth or genius could devise 
To strengthen form, develop mind. 

His mental pow'rs increas'd, improv'd, 

As well as force with which he mov'd. 

V. 

Equestrian sports and games and chase 
In him an active leader found ; 



MARMONDALE. ^5 



In tliem lie held tlie foremost place 

Outrunning all but fox and liound. 
In the pursuit o'er hill and dale 
Leaj^'d every barrier on the trail. 



VI. 



Attending once a tournament 

A knight, who knew not of his skill, 

A wager laid with his assent. 
The wager was the supper-bill, 

Including wine and music, found 

For dancing, when the queen was crown'd. 

VII. 

The knight rode first. With steady hand 
He held the lance ; his piercing eye 

Peer'd through the distance o'er the land, 
Upon the rings that hung on high. 

On his last ride two rings he left. 

But three times three young Antone cleft. 



36 MARMONDALE. 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 

I. 
A lonely place was Antono Hall — 

The doors were barr'cl,tlie blinds were clos'd; 
The spacious mansion, grim and tall. 

Beneath the oaken shade repos'd. 
Upon the smooth and level green 
Was neither shrub nor flower seen. 

II. 
Upon each porch, at front and rear, 

A trusty servant slept at night ; 
Two surly mastiffs, kennel'd near. 

Kept them from fear or sudden fright. 
While strange, uncommon sights or sounds 
Summon'd full twenty baying hounds. 

HI. 
'Twas harvest and the reapers lay 

At midday on a field half shorn, 
While in the distance, far away, 

Spread fields of lofty, waving corn. 
In which a sable band appear'd 
To gather forage for the herd. 



MARMONDALE. 37 



IV. 



Tliey watcli'd tlie river's southern shore 
To catch the signal, when display'd, 

To go and bring their master o'er, 
Whose coming had been long delay'd. 

A grand reception had been plann'd 

By Antone's friends when he would land. 

V. 

At last he came. The summons flew 

From house to house, from friend to friend, 

Till all of his arrival knew. 

They soon were ready to attend 

And made him from the river's shore 

A mounted escort to his door. 

VI. 

If, on his coming, Antone Hall 
To him appeared a gloomy place, 

His escort soon removed the pall, 
For friendship glow'd in ev'ry face ; 

The cheerful greetings he receiv'd 

The dull monotony reliev'd. 



38 MARMONDALE. 

Til. 

On his arrival there he found 

The entrance to his spacious lawn 

In garlands of bright roses bound 

By neighbors, who, by friendship drawn, 

Had strewn the walk with fragrant ilow'rs, 

And porch festoon'd like Eden's bow'rs. 

VIII. 

A score of ladies, dress'd in white. 
Now welcom'd him on his return, 

As neighbor, friend and champion knight, 
And all seem'd gratified to learn 

About a distant southern state. 

The incidents he did relate. 

IX. 

A speech the leading escort made. 
In glowing, fiow'ry language dress'd ; 

Then Ant one in few words convey' d 
His thanks, in feeling tones express'd. 

He wav'd his hand, bade all good-day, 

The train then mounted, rode away. 



MARMONDALE. 39 

CHAPTER FOUETEEN. 
I. 
Wlien Antone found himself alone, 

In mnsefnl mood lie sighing said: 
" My love for Lady Landon's grown 

To rule and fill my heart and head ; 
Not all the ladies here to-day 
Could turn my thoughts from her away. 

II. 
" By rest restor'd and needed sleep 

I will at once avow to her 
My love, my adoration deep, 

And pray that she may not defer 
Our nuptials to some distant day — 
My love cannot endure delay." 

III. 
When Antone rose at early dawn 

He saw his servants gath'ring near ; 
They soon had fill'd the .spacious lawn, 

And waited for him to appear. 
To learn from him his future plans — 
If he had purchased cotton lands. 



4:0 MARMONDALE. 

IV. 

He satisfied their minds at last, 

And said lie had not purchased yet ; 

But if he should, from what had passed, 
He trusted they would not forget 

His kind attention and his care 

Would be extended to them there. 

V. 

" Now seated in my lonely room, 
By friends and neighbors left alone, 

I'll try to dissipate the gloom, 
Dear Lady Landon," wrote Antone, 

" That seems to hang around my way 

Since my arrival yesterday. 

VI. 

" Without you, lonely is my home. 
That heretofore an Eden seem'd ; 

To me an aching void had come. 

On which the light of love has gleam'd, 

To make a paradise for me 

Of home, if only shar'd by thee. 



MAIIMONDALE. 41 



VII. 



" I would that I were witli tliee now, 
There in the halo of thy smiles 

That sot my ardent love aglow ; 
But, ah ! the intervening miles ! 

The endless cycle of a year 

Must pass ere I can see my dear. 

VIII. 

"But do not doubt! The love that's tried 
By absence will enduring prove, 

And ever constant will abide 

My first, mature, unchanging love ! 

Be mine, dear Alice, mine alone ! 

Sincerely yours, Avard Antone." 



CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 

I. 

When Duncan Vale secur'd the lands 
For Avard Antone, by request, 



42 MARMONDALE. 

He wrote to liim to send his liancis, 

Or come with them, as suited best ; 
But if he could not leave his home, 
He would direct them till he'd come. 

II. 

Then Antone chose from out his force 
The number he design'd to send, 

Always preferring those, of course. 
On whom he knew he could depend ; 

With them and teams and tools to clear, 

He sent a trusty overseer. 

III. 
Sad was the parting when it came : 

Fond mothers rung their hands and cried, 
And fathers turn'd from pride or shame 

Away their manly tears to hide ; 
Near friends were clasp'd in fond embrace, 
While tears cours'd down each sable face. 

IV. 

Their journey lay through dreary wilds 
And cypress swam23S and forests wide, 



MAEMONDALE. 43 

O'er unfreqiientcd roads for miles, 

Without a compass or a guide. 
At niglit tliey camp'd by streams, where wood 
Was plentiful to cook their food. 

V. 
Where Koanoke came rolling on 

O'er boulder'd bed to ocean-tide, 
The weary party there sat down 

Until the means could be supplied 
To land them on the other shore. 
They all seem'd anxious to explore. 

VI. 

When landed there, they took their way 
Through wilderness of waving pine. 

And halted at the close of day 

Beyond the " Old Dominion " line ; 

And there, on Carolina's soil, 

They pitch'd their tent to rest a while. 

VII. 
The streams were well supplied with fish ; 
The forests, too, were filled with game ; 



44 MARMONDALE. 

So each one liad a sav'ry dish 

Of fish or flesh, both wikl and tame ; 
Then sang their songs and danc'd at night 
Around the torches' flaming light. 

VIII. 

With energies restor'd again 

They made their way with greater speed, 
And stopj)'d not for a show'r of rain 

That made it arduous to proceed, 
Until a swelling stream they spied 
That spread its waters far and wide. 

IX. 

There sturdy oaks a shelter made 

From which the " mast " in plenty fell, 

And tall, rank grass grew in the glade 
That quickly by the sickle fell. 

Delicious feed their teams supplied 

Until the Yv^aters did subside. 

X. 

Then onward went the sable crew, 
Without delay, till set of sun. 



MARMONDALE. 45 

And kindl'd their camp-fires anew 

Adjacent to a rippling rnn, 
And there prepar'd their fish and game, 
Then supp'd and slept till morning came. 



CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 

I. 

We pass — not pausing to relate 
Events transpiring on their way — 

Till down in the Palmetto State 
The broad Pedee before them lay. 

They halted where its swelling tide 

Spread through the cypress far and wide. 

II. 

There, weary waiting, found a guide 
And boatman skill'd to take them o'er ; 

The danger pass'd — some laugh'd, some cried. 
When landed on the southern shore. 

Light-hearted then they made their way, 

And halted not till close of day. 



46 MAllMONDALE. 

III. 

Tlirougli flooding rains and swollen streams, 
That made tliem dangerous to pass, 

The cavalcade of men and teams 
Went — flonnd'ring through the deep morass, 

Through tangl'd reeds, through mire and mud; 

At last reach'd Santee's swelling flood. 

lY. 

Before them lay, well nigh immers'd, 

A wilderness of sycamore. 
And over this in grandeur burst 

The beauties of a southern shore. 
O'er channel deep and flowing sail 
Were seen the tow'rs of Marmondale. 

V. 

When twilight clos'd upon the scene 
They all assembl'd on the shore, 

And kindl'd camp-fires on the green. 
And sang the song prepar'd before, 

In tones soul-thrilling, sweet and clear, 

The words of which now follow here : 



MARMONDALE. 47 

Moses in sight of de promis'd land, 
De children of Isreal tuck dar stand, 
All bound to 'bey de Lord's command ; 

For Moses was dare to scotch 'um. 
Dej stood by Jordan's rollin' streani, 
And Moses give a mighty scream ; 
For dey had no boat and dey had no team — 

No one to come and fotch 'um. 

Chorus : So we stand here to-day, to-day ! 
So we stand here to-day, I fear! 
No one to take us ober ; 
I fear, I fear, no one to take us ober ! 

When we left home and Mas' Avard, 
We niggers thought it mighty hard. 
And some of us felt mighty scar'd ; 

For we didn't know where we's goin'. 
But master sent an overseer. 
And we all's follow'd in de rear. 
Till we arriv'd all safely here, 

Whar de Santee river's flowin'. 

Chorus : So we stand here to-day, to-day ! 
So we stand here to-day, I fear ! 
No one to take us ober ; 
I fear, I fear, no one to take us ober ! 



48 MARMONDALE. 

When we all's get on master's land, 
Wicl our great force, a mighty band. 
We'll have a fus rate cotton stand, 

As big as corn, and bigger. 
We'll hoe our crops and make 'um grow. 
Let all the darkies 'round here know 
Dat we'm high niggers, not de low. 

And we speaks to no common nigger. 

Chorus : So we stand here to-day, to-day ! 

So we stand here to-day, dat's clear. 
And wants to be taken ober ; 
We wants, we wants, we wants to be 
taken ober. 



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 
I. 

'Twas Sabbath morn. The deep-ton'd bell 
Was heard across the waters wide ; 

As on their ears its clear notes fell 

They wish'd themselves the other side. 

To listen to the earnest pray'rs. 

The solemn chants and plaintive airs. 



MARMONDALE. 49 



II. 



And, true tg superstition's call, 

They met to bend tlie suppliant knee 

To Him they loy'd as Lord of all, 

Though restless 'neath his stern decree, 

That made them suffer and atone 

For sins of others and their own. 

III. 

Old Uncle Abra'm led in jDray'r, 

And improvis'd a sacred song, 

When melody rose on the air 

* 
From many voices in the throng. 

In simple words the hymn was giv'n, 

Entitled, "We all's goin' to heav'n." 

We all's goin' to heav'n. 
We all's goin' to heav'n ; 
We knows dat Jesus loves us 

When we does de best we can. 
We all's goin' to heav'n. 
We knows our sin's forgiv'n ; 
We knows we'm goin' to heav'n 

On de salvation plan. 



50 MAllMONDALE. 

We all's goin' to glory, 

We all's goin' to glory ; 

We knows dat Jesus loves us 

When we does de best we can. 
We all's goin' to glory, 
We hears de pleasing story, 
Why Jesus He has lov'd us, 

'Cause we does de best we can. 

We'll all see Him comin'. 
We'll all see Him comin', 
We'll all see Him comin' 

To meet us in de skies. 
We'll all see Him comin' 
We'll hear de banjo thum'in', 
We'll know de blessed Savior 

By de spression ob his eyes. 



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 

I. 

'A likely force has Antone sent 
To make improvements on his lands," 



MARMONDALE. 51 

Said Duncan Yale, when he had spent 

A day with overseer and hands, 
In showing them the quarters' bounds, 
Attended by his pack of hounds. 

11. 

" They say this but a fraction is 
Of his fine home plantation force ; 

"When Lady Landon hears of this. 
She then will marry him, of course," 

Said Madame Yale ; " and we'll atone 

By having Ellen left alone." 

III. 
" Should he her antecedents learn. 

To me, dear wife, one thing is clear : 
He certainly would from her turn. 

And seek the hand of Ellen dear ; 
I doubt her being left alone 
If she will wed Avard Antone." 

IV. 

" But what would Lady Landon say. 
If Ellen should her rival prove?" 



52 MARMONDALE. 

"She will be bound to liave her way — 

But all depends on Antone's lovo ; 
I hold a secret, you well know, 
For Lady Landon's weal or woe." 

V. 

This conversation — overheard 
By Lady Landon, unperceiv'd, 

While writing answer long deferr'd 
To letter from Antone receiv'd — 

Serv'd but to interrupt her theme. 

As one awaken'd from a dream. 

VI. 

She paus'd a moment, drojDj^'d the I3en, 
And threw the letter in the fire — 

Then mus'd a while, commenc'd again, 
And then concluded to retire 

And write to him some future day, 

"When this dark cloud had roll'd away. 



MAEMONDALE. 53 

CHAPTER NINETEEN. 
I. 
Tlio' late ere Lady Landon slept, 
She waken'd at the early dawn, 
And, rising quietly, she stepp'd 

Out on the ample, shady lawn ; 
And there, within a bow'r, alone, 
Eesum'd her letter to Ant one. 

IL 

"Avard," she said, "though long delay'd, 

The pleasant task I now begin. 
Fulfilling my late promise made — 

Your letters should responses win — 
And hope to dissipate the gloom 
You say hangs 'round your lonely room. 

III. 
"In your own home a lonely room — 

How strange the story seems to me ! 
Your presence there should light the gloom, 

E'en make Egyptian darkness flee. 
No tinge of sadness should find place 
Where's seen your bright and smiling face. 



51 MARMONDALE. 

IV. 

"That liome, you sa}', an Edoii seemed 
Until of late. How sad the change ! 

So much like Adam's, I have deem'd, 
When join'd by Eve upon the grange. 

Through love for her, the Scriptures prove, 

He lost his Eden — had to move. 

V. 

"I note the passage where you say, 
'Be mine, dear Alice, mine alone;' 

And here I am alone to-day. 

For Ellen and her ma have gone 

To call on Dinah, Abra'ms wife. 

And see a j^hase of quarter life. 

VI. 

" Your force arriv'd, and Mr. Yale 
Has them employ'd in cutting ties 

To build a bridge across the swale. 
To land them where the quarter lies. 

They said 3^our land look'd mighty fine 

When they were shown around the line. 



MARMONDALE. 55 

VII. 

"Tho' Mrs. Yale and Ellen dear 
Are not aware I'm writing you, 

They wait impatiently to hear 
"When you will pay the visit due. 

All hope to see their friend this Fall — 

Avard Antone of Antone Hall." 

VIII. 

So passed the time at Marmondale 
With Lady Landon and her ward, 

She waiting for the tardy mail, 

Which often her enjoyment marr'd. 

The Winter j^ass'd, the Spring had gone, 

And Summer on to Autumn flown. 



CHAPTER TWENTY. 

I. 

One Autumn day Avard Antone 
Arriv'd at Duncan Yale's abode. 



56 MARMONDALE. 

To find the ladies all alone ; 

For Duncan Yale was on the road, 
Or on the chase with nimble hound, 
In which he* great enjoyment found. 

II. 
But Duncan Yale was not aware 

That Antone had arriv'd that day, 
So in the sport he held a share. 

On the pursuit he kept his way. 
Until his hounds the fox outrun, 
Then brought him home at set of sun. 

III. 
Flush'd with excitement from the chase 

On foaming steed he reach'd his homo, 
And brighter glow'd his florid face 

When told his friend Antone had come. 
His horse and gun at once he gave 
Into the keeping of his slave. 

IV. 

In happy mood he met his friend, 
"With cordial greeting held his hand ; 



MARMONDALE. 57 

His- kind inquiries did extend 

To those left in his native land, 
Yet chided him in terms severe 
For his long absence of a year. 

V. 

" Has Mrs. Vale been telling you 
How well your force is getting on ? 

How earnestly they labor, too ; 

How much isclear'dand plow'd and sown? 

Their loss of time, a week in all. 

Since they arrived, a year this Fall." 

YI. 

" She has not told me aught of this. 

For I have no inquiries made ; 
My overseer efficient is, 

And by his force stands undismay'd. 
In all great confidence I feel, 
I know them true as flint and steel. 

VII. 

" That old man Abra'm is a gem. 

In youth receiv'd from Afric's coast ; 



58 MARMONDALE. 

The sliip that brought him could not stem 
The storm, and half the crew were lost. 
With him two hundred souls or more 
Were wreck'd upon a rocky shore ; 

VIII. 

'' And he sav'd Dinah, now his wife, 
And mother of ten children here, 

And seven more in active life 

At my old home, to them so dear. 

They all inherit from their birth 

Their parents' traits of real worth. 

IX. 

" I brought him. down to mind the hands. 
His wife to tend the poultry yard, 

For aged people's health demands 
A little labor, not too hard ; 

It would put them in deep distress 

If left to listless idleness." 

X. 
Said Mr. Yale : " Our tea awaits — 
Please wait on Lady Landon down — - 



MARMONDALE. 59 

Just listen how dear Ellen prates ! 

Like some fair belles we meet in town. 
With me, my friend, I think you'll own 
That she has quite pretentious grown." 



CHAPTER TWENTY-OIsE. 

I. 

Quite overjoy'd the servants were 
When through the quarter it was told 

That Mas' Avard would soon be there, 
It gave delight to young and old. 

Aunt Dinah rose at break of day, 

To Marmondale then made her way. 

II. 

She there stood ling'ring 'round the door 

Until a servant did appear. 
"When breakfast's over, not before," 

She said, "tell master I am here 
To learn how all is gittin' on 
At Antone Hall since we've been gone." 



60 MARMONDALE. 

III. 

Witli noiseless step lie reach'd liis place, 
And there in solemn silence stood, 

As is the manner of his race 

When to a household serving food. 

When done, he to his master gave 

The message of her aged slave. 

IV. 

"Please, Mas' Antone, Aunt Dinah 'tends 
To see you at de door out dar." 

The master rose, bow'd to his friends, 
And then to Dinah did appear, 

Who cried: "Ya, ya! God bless the child! 

I is so glad, I's almost wild. 

Y. 

"How is my children, Master, tell 
Has any died since we come down?" 

"No, Dinah, all are live and well. 
And have been through the whole year gone. 

They all send ' howdy,' do you hear ? 

And love to pap and mammy dear. 



MARMONDALE. 61 



VI. 



"But, Dinali, tell me liow are all 

The hands? And Uncle Abra'm well?" 

"They is, indeed, and since last fall, 
When we all's come down sonf to dwell. 

Not one's been ailin' in de least, 

'Cept Chlo and Susan, dey've increas'd. 

VII. 

" Dey spects a present, Mas', from you ; 

Dey tell'd me I must told you so ; 
Somet'ing dat's perty, neat and new — 

Now, I's done told you, I must go." 
"Well, tell all I'll be over soon— 
They need not work this afternoon." 

VIII. 

" But, Mas' Avard, I dun forgot, 
Dey has a shuckin' dar to-night ; 

De corn's all haul'd upon de lot. 

Now dat de moon am shinin' bright. 

You all's come ober — don't you fail ! — 

And see how brack folks carry sail." 



62 MARMONDALE. 



IX. 



Then Dinah hasten'd home to tell 
The news receiv'd from Antone Hall. 

She said : " My child'en all am well, 
And have been since we left last fall ; 

And Mas' Antone I did invite 

To tend our shuckin' here to-night. 

X. 

" I spects de white folks all to come — 
De ladies and de gentlemen ; 

And so I thought I'd hurry home 
And kill dem chickens in de pen, 

Dat all ob dem can have a fry — 

Dey'll bring de biscuits and de pie ! 

XI. 

" Now, Abra'm, you hang on dat pot — 
I's goin' to kotch dat brood ob specks, 

Don't fail to have de water hot 

By time I wring dem chickens' necks. 

I've all dese chickens now to j)ick — 

Come, Dilsy, help me — you and Dick." 



MARMONDALE. G3 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO. 
I. 

A busy year with Antone's liauds, 
When first upon liis quarter sent, 

In clearing off liis cotton lands, 
The entire force their labor spent ; 

And when the year had roll'd around, 

Complete success their efforts crown' d. 

II. 

What happiness this sable race, 
Transplanted from Virginia's soil, 

Enjoy'd upon their new-made place, 
When closed each day's incessant toil. 

In playing fiddle and banjo, 

And singing songs, as found below : 

SONG. 

Oh, Mas' Avard said to us one day, 
" So many niggers doesn't pay, 
But I want none to run away, 

Nor stay here to lounge or loiter. 
I'll go down souf where cotton grows. 
Where 'tis so warm dey need no clothes. 



64 MARMONDALE. 

And a large tract ob land inclose, 
Dat de planters call a quarter." 

Chorus : So we're all here, we are all here, , 
And, Susan, don't you cr}^ ; 
For we're all here, and don' t you fear. 
And, Susan, don't you die. 

When we all's fust come on dis track ob land, 
Dar was no place for a cabin to stand, 
But all we niggers wid axes in hand 

Soon cl'ar'd a place for to build 'em. 
We tuck all de dry pines dat had been blaz'd. 
And soon we all's had a dozen rais'd; 
If you'd been here, you'd been amaz'd 

To see how quick we fill'd dem. 

Chorus : Now we're all here, we are all here. 
And, Susan, don't you cry ; 
For we're all hei^e, and don't you fear, 
And, Susan, don't you die. 

Now dat we all's hab a plenty ob room. 
We'll sweep it clean wid a broom, straw-broom, 
Den dance and sing by de light ob de moon ; 

For dar ain't no use in frettin'. 
Dar's plenty ob corn, and bacon ain't high; 
Ground hogs plenty, and possums ain't shy — 



MARMONDALE. 65 

We'll soou liab plenty ob cliick^ns to fry, 
For Aunt Dinah's liens am settin'. 

Choeus : And we're all liere, we are all here, 
And, Susan, don't you cry ; 
For we're all here, and don't you fear, 
And, Susan, don't you die. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-THEEE. 

I. 
When Antone had return'd again, 

He found the breakfast party gone ; 
Without delay he sought the twain 

And found them walking on the lawn. 
"My interruption please excuse," 
He said, " I bring the morning news. 

" We are invited to attend 

A ' shucking ' at my place to-night; 
And on you, ladies, I'll depend. 

I think 'twill give you great delight 
To hear my negroes sing and play— 
You know the nights are light as day." 



GG MAKMONDALE. 

III. 

'Twas autumn, and tlie ripen' cl corn 
Was liaul'd for shucking on tlie green ; 

And Abra'm went from night till morn, 
"When all the servants could be seen, 

Inviting them from quarters round 

To shuck the corn out on the ground. 

IV. 

The shucking came — the shrill outcry, 
Which some by piping reeds prolong'd, 

Was heard with voices loud and high ; 

And soon the place with negroes throng'd, 

While deaf'ning shouts and loud huzza 

Rang through the woods and fields afar. 

V. 

Assembl'd ere the set of sun 

They took their seats in single file. 

And soon the work was w^ell begun, 
Each striving to reduce the pile ; 

Thej work'd until the ground was clear'd. 

Then danc'd till morning light appear'd. 



MAItMONDALE. 67 

VI. 

Well pleas'd the Aiitone party were 

With all they heard and saw that night, 

While seated round amid the glare 
Of fat pine-torches, flaming bright ; 

And joyful faces were perceiv'd 

When Chloe and Sue their gifts receiv'd.. 



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR. 

I. 

"I know the potency of love — 
This tender passion naught can stay," 

Said Duncan Yale ; " and will improve 
The time we are alone to-day, 

In telling you, my dear Antone, 

What long ere this you should have known." 

II. 

'' Oh, say not so ! If aught be wrong. 
The knowledge of it comes too late ; 



68 MARMONDALE. 

But do not mj suspense prolong — 

Speak freely ! let me know my fate ! 
Is Lady Landon false to me ?^ 
Is she not what she seems to be ?" 

III. 
" My honor urges me to say, 

Although I break a solemn vow, 
Your widow is a cast-away, 

And has a husband living now. 
She claims divorce dissolved the twain- 
And he, that she has been insane." 

IV. 

"If this be true," replied Antone, 
" And yet to marry she is free, 

I'd wed her still, were this not known ; 
But now our union cannot be." 

To wed one known to've been insane, 

Or one divorc'd, I would disdain." 

V. 
When Lady Landon met Antone 
He ask'd her for an interview ; 



MARMONDALE. 69 

He wish'd to hear from her alone 

If what he'd heard was false or true. 
" If true," said he, " I fear some blame 
Will be attach'd to your fair name." 

VI. 

" There may be blame where praise should be, 
Disgrace attach'd to innocence ; 

If what you've heard reflects on me, 
The truth will be my own defense. 

That I a secret kept from you 

I must acknowledf]je to be true." 

VII. 

" But why from me a secret keep. 
You should have openly confess'd 

With sorrow and affliction deep ? 
You leave it rankling in your breast, 

And thus an obstacle will prove 

To confidence and mutual love." 

VIII. 

" If shame and deep disgrace are mine, 
From overt acts or crime, Antone, 



70 MAKMONDALE. 

Tlie sin and sorrow is not thine — 

'Tis mine to suffer, mine alone ! 

To sighs, to tears and bitter grief, 

Disclosure would not bring relief. 

IX. 

" I knew that I was innocent 

Of aught that should my name disgrace, 
And would not willingly consent 

To tell a tale from j)lace to place 
Of fraud, conspiracy and shame. 
That might reflect upon my name. 



CHAPTEE TWENTY-FIVE. 

I. 

" I knew one in my native land 
Who, in her youth, became a wife 

To one who soon conspir'd and plann'd 
To darken and destroy her life : 

Her total ruin to complete, 

Lodg'd her in an insane retreat. 



MARMONDALE. 71 

11. 

" There she with raving maniacs stay'd, 
Unseen by friends, two years or more, 

Till on her keepers she had made 
Impressions they had felt before 

When some sane victims there lay chained, 

While fiends outside their wealth retain'd. 

III. 

" And knowing he who there held sway 
Would ne'er release one in his pow'r, 

Unless they would a ransom pay. 
They open'd wide her prison door. 

Bade her escape at dead of night. 

Though in a weak and sorry plight. 

lY. 

" While fleeing on till morning dawn. 
Her thoughts reverted to her home. 

To which were her affections drawn ; 
But going there might seal her doom. 

For sordid fiends were on her track 

To capture her and take her back. 



72 MARMONDALE. 



" Her face a tale of sufferings told, 

Tliougli youtli and beauty linger'd there ; 

When she her story did unfold 
She met a cold, unpitying stare, 

That chang'd to dark, suspicious frown, 

And brought her j^ride and spirits down. 

TI. 

" To pious priests and Christian saints 
She oft her sad experience told, 

But they were deaf to her complaints 
And turn'd away in manner cold ; 

In homes where wealth and comfort reign'd 

She never once admission gain'd. 

YII. 

" At length, she pass'd a peasant's door ; 

Within she saw the blazing fire — 
She paused and, in a moment more, 

Heceiv'd a greeting from the sire. 
Who said to her, with pleasant smile : 
'Come in, sit down and rest the while. 



MARMONBALE. 73 



YIII. 



" ' The dame is not quite well to-day, 
And we are now both getting old — 

You'd better warm yourself and stay, 
You look, indeed, as if you're cold ; 

Though little comfort here you'll find 

Save shelter from the rain and wind/ 



IX. 



" *And that is much to one like me,' 
The woman said, in sadden' d tone ; 

' You know not what it is to be 
Cast out into the world alone. 

While others live upon your wealth, 

Obtain'd by force, by fraud and stealth.' 

X. 

"'No,' said the peasant, 'we've no wealth 
To lure the wayward on to crime ; 

Still we've been bless'd with perfect health. 
And comfort, too, from time to time ; 

But now we're sad, the dame's not well — 

Sta}' with us and your story tell.' 



74 MARMONDALE. 



xi: 

" ' Then to tlie dame I'll nurse become ; 

Under my treatment she will mend. 
I'll try to cheer your lonely home ; 

If you'll consent to ihis, my friend, 
Until I am with means supplied — 
Then, if you're needy, I'll provide.' 

XII. 

*' He thank'd the woman, bade her stay 
Till she a better home could find, 

When she began, without delay. 

To treat the dame with care so kind 

That she at length began to mend 

And to her duties to attend. 



CHAPTEK TWENTY-SIX. 

I. 

"One night, while seated by the fire, 
The woman told her story o'er ; 



MABMONDALE. 

A friend then came to see the sire, 

Who rose and met him at the door 
And bade him enter and sit doAvn 
And give the news he'd heard in town. 

11. 
" ' I heard no news. In haste I went 

To find a nnrse to tend my wife, 
And in the search three hours I spent, 

But all dislik'd a country life ; 
My better judgment I obey'd, 
Resolved to find a country maid. 

III. 
" ' If you can tell me where to find 

A person qualified to fill 
This place, to suit the patient's mind, 

And would be guided by her will. 
In all things gentle, kind and true, 
I shall be much oblig'd to you.' 

IV. 

" ' I have one here, yet do not know 
That she the charge would undertake ; 



76 MAHMONDALE* 

When she came here the dame was low, 

And so she stay'd for pity's sake. 
'Tis just two weeks since she came here : 
Our friend, Sir Francis — Miss Devere.' 

V. 
" ' Tis useless, then, for me to say 

That I am glad to meet you here — 
Such compliment were thrown away. 

Though surely it would be sincere ; 
I don't like empty phrase or cant, 
And have been telling what I want. 

"VI. 

" ' I now will say, if you'll consent 

To stay with us three months or more, 

With lib'ral wages be content, 

And use the means within your pow'r 

To raise my feeble wife to health, 

I will secure you home and wealth.' 

YII. 

" ' I'll go with you, but where I go 
And who I am must not be known ; 



MARMONDALE. 77 

My reason you may sometime know. 

But as I have no faults to own, 
Crimes to confess or to conceal, 
You must not ask me to reveal.' 

VIII. 

" ' Then leave with me for Finly Hall; 

My home's secluded in the vale. 
Surrounded by a massive wall, 

Extending over hill and dale, 
Where no vile meddler can intrude 
Upon your wonted solitude.' 



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN. 

I. 

" The three months quickly roll'd around 
That Miss Devere agreed to stay, 

And gladly Madame Finly found 
Her health improving day by day ; 

Now that her stay was at an end 

She felt much griev'd to lose her friend. 



78 MARMONDALE. 

II. 

" Not idle had Sir Francis been 
In all the time she had been there ; 

Her secret he had learn'd, and then, 
Convinc'd her adversaries were 

Conspirators with base intent, 

He had them all to prison sent. 

III. 

" She did not think it wise to own 
Her painful secret of the past. 

Since from experience she had known, 
If once reveal' d, it was the last 

Eespectful treatment she would see, 

And lose all human sympathy. 

IV. 

" To meet the cold, inquiring gaze 
Of those who saw when she appear'd 

Strange motions and eccentric ways. 
None ever notic'd till they'd heard 

"Where she had been, and then 'twas plain 

That she was hopelessly insane. 



MARMONDALE. 79 



" Was it not riglit she sliould be free 
From one conspiring 'gainst lier life, 

When it was plain that she could be 
No more to him a loving wife ? 

And could you now condemn her course 

In claiming from him a divorce?" 

YI. 

" 'Twas not her fault," replied Antone, 
" But her misfortune to endure : 

To live secluded and alone, 
To die or live and be secure 

From charges of decej)tion made — 

Our social rules must be obey'd." 

YII. 

"If this you make the fate of all 
Such victims on the altar laid. 

You will your solemn vows recall 
And my seclusion not invade ; 

I am that one, I hear my doom — " 

Bade him G:ood nio-ht and left the room. 



80 MARMONDALE. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT. 

I. 
What bitter tliouglits lier mem'ry press' d 

When in her chamber all alone ! 
She could not sleep, she could not rest, 

For all her happiness had flown. 
To her life seem'd a desert bare 
Where love once bloom'd in beauty rare. 

II. 
" Oh, what is left to me," she said, 

" If I am not to be his wife ? 
When peace and joy and hope have fled— 

What is the precious boon of life 
That I should longer suffer here 
And cling to as a treasure dear ? 

III. 
To die ! — and he to live and love 

Another ? — No ! I cannot die. 
Though safe in paradise above, 

I'd leave my mansion in the sky ; 
The walls I'd scale, resign my crown, 
To tear his earthly idol down. 



MARHONDALE, 81 

IV. 

To sleep — to dream that I were liis 

By lioly tie, affection deep — 
Than waken from a dream like this ! — 

I'd welcome an eternal sleep ! 
I could not wake, and live, and see 
Him love another more than me !" 

V. 

'Twas late when Lady Landon rose 
From fever'd, unrefreshing sleep, 

Determin'd she would not disclose 
Her plans, but all a secret keep. 

Nor let her crushing grief be known — 

With smiles meet Ellen and Antone. 

VI. 

Descending to the floor below. 

She found the parlors vacant there, 

And, seeing this, prepar'd to go 
Alone and take the morning air. 

Its soul-re^dving pow'r to feel 

Ere she would take her morning meal. 



82 MARMONDALE. 

VII. 

She loy'd tlie soft and gentle breeze, 
Enjoy'd tlie sweet perfume of flow'rs. 

And 'neatli tlie tall, majestic trees 
She, musing, linger'd there for hours. 

Returning by the Tourney ground. 

She Antone there and Ellen found. 

Till. 

" Good morning. Lady Landon dear," 
Said Ellen; " 'tis a lovely day ! 

We have been waiting long to hear 
What my dear governess would say, 

Since 'tis agreed, with her consent, 

Next week to hold a tournament." 

IX. 

" No opposition would avail 

When two 'gainst one in contest meet- 
The question leave to Mister Yale. 

With his consent we will complete 
Arrangements for the grand event. 
If you with this will be content." 



MAEMONDALE. 83 



X. 



Wlien Antone had reveal'd their plan 
To Duncan Yale, his lib'ral host, 

With his consent they all began 
To plan, without regard to cost, 

A tournament that should outvie 

All others held in years gone by. 



They summon'd all the knights around. 
And greatest preparations made ; 

The dancing-hall and tourney-ground 
Their beautifying taste displa.y'd ; 

They ruled each knight that join'd the sport 

At least one lady should escort. 



CHAPTEE TWENTY-NINE. 

I. 

The autumn day, so calm and fair. 

Broke on the morning clear and bright ; 



84 MABMONDALE. 

A liundrecl knights assembl'd there, 
Each with a lady dress' d in white, 
Each with a knight, in costume dress'd, 
E-ode steeds well barded, two abreast. 

II. 

When Antone saw the mounted train, 
His sports in youth came fresh to mind, 

And tempted him to ride ag^in 
If he a trusty horse could find ; 

Each knight's was tender'd soon as run, 

And he at last accepted one. 

ni. 
When all had run, his skill he tried, 

And ev'ry time the rings he cleft ; 
Nine from the number with him tied, 

Eode on until but two were left ; 
He rode again and left but one — 
The victor was Avard Antone. 

IV. 

The queen of beauty then to crown 
Was Antone's right, and with low bow 



MARMONDALE. 85 

To Lady Landon — met her frown — 

Then plac'd the crown on Ellen's brow. 
Shouts of applause rang clear and loud, 
That sank to murmurs through the crowd. 

V. 
By him at once the queen was led 

Where supper fill'd the ample board ; 
With her was seated at the head, 

And soon as order was restor'd 
Gave toasts with wit and sentiment 
To the assembled tournament. 

YI. 

The signal was by bugle blast 
To summon dancers to the ball ; 

Arising then from the repast, 

They march'd in order to the halL 

The qvTeen and Antone led the way, 

And dancing held till break of day. 

VII. ^ 

Poor Lady Landon 'mid the throng 
Suppress'd her feelings for a time. 



86 MARMONDALE. 

But smarting 'neatli the cruel wrong, 

Began to meditate a crime ; 
Her first great wrong, but half redress'd. 
With this woke vengeance in her breast., 

YIII. 
"Oh, wli}'," she mused, "was this my fate ? 

What sin was mine, to be aton'd ? 
My sufferings to mitigate 

I ask'd of Him who sits enthron'd — 
The ruler of the universe — - 
Can He not shield me from this curse ? 

IX. 

"Oh, why was I allow'd to be 
The victim of conspiring fiends ? 

Shut out from human sympathy 
And robb'd of liberty and means? 

Why was I forc'd to leave my home 

And doom'd in foreign lands to roam ? 

X. 
"This must not be," she said at last. 
And strove her spirits to regain. 



MARMONDALE. 87 

" I have been patient in the past, 
No longer passive I'll remain ; 
And yet 'tis best so to appear 
Until I see my way more clear." 

XI. 

The music ceas'd ; 'twas early dawn. 

The mounted throng soon rode away, 
And Lady Landon cross'd the lawn. 

The mansion reach'd at break of day ; 
With spirits sadden'd and depress'd 
She to her room retir'd to rest. 



CHAPTEE THIKTY. 

I. 

A blighted life is hers that's placed 
Beneath the ban and call'd insane- 

Despis'd, insulted and disgraced 
She cannot be herself again ; 

In ev'ry act of hers friends see 

Some token of insanity. 



88 MARMONDALE. 

II. 

How many not insane still dwell 

In cells secluded and alone, 
And though their keepers know it well, 

They dare not let the truth be known ; 
They know, when such are there confin'd, 
The motto is : "Deaf, dumb and blind." 

III. 

So Lady Landon in the past 

Had spent two years of precious time ; 
Into a maniac's cell was cast, 

When in her youth and beauty's prime 
By vile conspirators for gain 
Who branded her as one insane. * 

IV. 

To her how dark the future seem'd 

Without one bright, soul-cheering ray ; 

Of love and happiness she'd dream'd 
But now that dream had pass'd away 

And left her scorn'd and cast aside, 

A waif upon life's turbid tide. 



MAllMONDALE. 89 

CHAPTER THIETY-ONE. 

I. 
'Twas past the middle of tlie day 

When Lady Landon rose to find 
The family had driv'n away 

To call upon their rector kind ; 
And there the afternoon they spent 
In talking of the tournament. 

II. 
" But why did not your noble queen 

Give us a friendly call ?" he said. 
" If you our Lady Landon mean,. 

I'll say we left her still in bed ; 
But here's the queen that fill'd the throne — 
Miss Ellen Vale," replied Antone. 

III. 
"Long live our queen," the rector said. 

And may her gentle scepter wave 
O'er all her empire blessings shed 

Upon the freeman and the slave. 
A youthful queen, indeed, Antone ! 
I fear she cannot reign alone." 



90 MAEMONDALE. 

IV. 

" Her willing vassal I became 
Ere slie liad yet receiv'd the crown," 

EepliecT Antone, " and in my name 

No pow'r could bring her scepter down: 

Ere she again ascends the throne, 

Dear rector, will you make us one ?" 

V. 

" The queen this question must decide. 
Unless her parents here should claim 

She is too young to be a bride, 

Prefer that she'd not change her name." 

" Her wish is ours," said Duncan Yale ; 

"[Restraints of law you'll not assail." 

VI. 

That night Antone and Ellen stood 
By dimly-lighted altar, where 

The rector broke the solitude 
By offering a fervent pray'r ; 

The organ j^eal'd a sweet refrain. 

Then he in wedlock join'd the twain. 



MARMONDALE. 91 

CHAPTER THIRTY-T^VO. 

I. 

The tidings of their nuptials flew 

Like autumn leaves before the gale 
Till all but Lady Landon knew. 
; Ere they arriv'd at Marmondale, 
It was agreed Avard Antone 
To her the sad news should make known. 

II. 
"How has my lady spent the day?" 

He quickly ask'd when first they met. 
"I tried," she said, " to drive away 

All thoughts of one who could forget 
His solemn promise, made to me, 
Now that our union cannot be." 

in. 

"A wise conclusion," said Antone, 
" When you reflect on what is past ; 

I hope no hatred will be shown 
By either, since the die is cast. 

My struggle great, to end the strife 

I've made Miss Ellen Yale my wife." 



92 MAEMONDALE. 

IV. 

The flush that mounted to her cheek 
Turn'd in a moment deadly pale, 

But like the snow on mountain j^eak 
That's whirl'd away in Winter's gale, 

With settl'd look of mental pain 

Her normal color came again. 

V. 

" Forgive me, Alice, and prepare 
To meet us at the festal board, 

The fam'ly only will be there ; 
Now let good feeling be restor'd." 

" I will indeed," she then replied ; 

" I lov'd the groom, I love the bride." 

VI. 

Then to her room in haste she went, 
A fatal drug secur'd from sight ; 

With mind on speedy vengeance bent, 
Before the dawn of morning light. 

She, with a footste23 firm and slow, 

Enter'd the banquet hall below. 



MAllMONDALE. 93 

CHAPTEE THIETY-THEEE. 

I. 
" Vengeance is mine," thus saith the Lord : 

"I will avenge thine enemy," 
Eung in her ears, distinctly heard ; 

She still impatient seem'd to be. 
And said : " If now on vengeance bent, 
Make me thy willing instrument." 

II. 

On entering the room she found 
The table set, with dainties spread, 

But no one there. She glided round 
Where stood the tea-urn at the head ; 

Then raised the lid with eager haste, 

And in the urn the poison plac'd. 

HI. 

Then stealthily retrac'd her steps. 
And pass'd into the drawing-room, 

Where on a lounge of crimson reps 
Together sat the bride and groom. 

She greeted him, the bride embrac'd, 

Her loving arms around her plac'd. 



94 MAHMONDxVLE. 

IV. 

" Where are your parents, Ellen dear ?'* 
Said Lady Lai don to the bride. 

" Oh, they will very soon be here," 
She with a pleasant smile replied. 

" They're slow to take their leave," said he, 

" When calling at the rectory." 

V. 

" Why, ma, what made you stay so late ?" 
Said Ellen, when at last they came ; 

*' It seem'd so long for us to wait — 
The rector, surely, is to blame. 

Now, Lady Landon, let the groom 

Escort you to the supper-room." 

VI. 

All seated round the table were. 
And serv'd from ev'ry sav'ry dish 

Nam'd in a lib'ral bill of fare. 

Including flesh and fowl and fish. 

With toast and tea in great supply, 

And dessert, too, of cake and pie. 



MARMONDALE. 95 



VII. 



Said Lady Landon, " I will tell 
A story, all composed in rhyme, 

Whicli Ellen dear remembers well. 
Commencing, ' Once upon a time.' " 

The story told onr time and space 

Forbid repeating in this place. 

YIII. 

Her interesting story told, 

She, laughing, to the servant said, 
" I've talked so long my tea is cold ; 

Bring me another dish instead." 
Another cup was soon supplied ; 
The servant set the tea aside. 

IX. 

" Now for a story from the groom ! 

He has not told us one as yet. 
Give us ' The Witch Upon the Broom,' 

That story I could ne'er forget. 
My mother often told it me 
At my old home across the sea. 



96 MARMONDALE. 

X. 

"And, oil! liow frigliten'd I have been 
When father told some ghostly tale ! 

I often fancied I saw then 

"Weird apparitions, ghastly jDale, 

That rais'd my brother's hair and mine. 

Like quills upon a porcupine.'* 



CHAPTER THIBTY-FOUE. 
I. 

" What ! all asleej)," she said at last ; 

" The surest way to drown your cares," 
And, rising silently, she pass'd 

Uj) to her room, one flight of stairs. 
Seizing a brand, she mounted higher, 
And set the lofty tow'rs on fire. 

II. 

Returning to the room she left, 
A scene of horror met her view : 



MAKMONDALE. 97 

All nearly were of life bereft, 

Antone's face wore a livid hue. 
He spoke lier name, but nothing more, 
When Alice halted at the door. 

III. 
"Avard," she said, "the time draws near 

When you must bid this earth farewell ; 
I'll follow you to that bright sphere, 

E'en though you pass thro' death and hell : 
You'll find me ever by your side. 
And own me as your spirit bride. 

IV. 

*' Die now and know we meet again ! 

Our deeds unite us, and forever ! 
I sinn'd through love, bestow'd in vain ; 

You through vows you lightly sever, 
Or break through greed of gain alone — 
We meet again ! farewell, Antone !" 

V. 
" Stay, Alice ! stay !" was Antone's call ; 
" One word, and I die satisfied." 



98 MAEMONDALE. 

But she strode tlirougli the lighted hall, 

The tourney-ground, the river side, 
Fled to the cliff in frenzied mood 
To plunge into the surging flood. 

VI. 

With deadly weapons in each hand 
That brightly in the starlight gleam'd, 

She held at bay the servile band 
Which bent upon her capture seem'd, 

As onward 'neath the midnight moon 

She fled to death, a welcome boon. 

VII. 

Upon the cliff she turn'd to view 
The lofty mansion, once her home, 

Confronting still the sable crew. 

" One step," she said, " may seal your doom. 

Look back and see my pow'r display'd, 

My vengeance wreak'd for trust betray'd." 

VIII. 

She drew her robes of snowy white 
Around her tall, majestic form ; 



MARMONDALE. 99 

Then cried, " O God of life and light! 

From out life's darkest clouds and storm 
I come to Thee, for bliss or woe" — 
And plung'd into the deep below. 

IX. 

Transfix'd, the throng then turn'd to gaze 
Upon the home of Duncan Yale. 

The lofty towers all ablaze 

Lit up the park at Marmondale, 

And clouds of smoke and tongues of flame 

From out the burning mansion came. 

X. 

They heard the shrieks that rent the air, 

The cry for mercy die away 
Into a wail of deep despair — 

And Marmondale in ruins lay. 
And Lady Landon lit the fire 
That prov'd a family funeral pyre. 



My muse farewell ! a sad farewell- 
Yet stay to wake my harp again, 



100 MAKMONDALE. 

And let its soothing numbers swell 
To sound a solemn, sweet refrain 
For those dear ones, now pass'd from earth 
By death, so call'd — the second birth. 

They've pass'd, and upward is their flight 
And onward through the countless years, 

To bathe in that eternal light 

"Which shines for all in higher spheres ; 

The light of justice, truth and love, 

Eeflected from God's throne above. 



A THOUGHT. 

The moonbeams shimmer on the lake, 

While angry waves that restless lie 
Destroy the picture it would take 

Of azure dome and starry sky. 
So with a calm, sweet smiling face : 

If waves of passion o'er it roll. 
They will its loveliness erase. 

And mar the beauty of the soul. 



EVEOLEAN: 

A TALE OF THE REVOLUTION, 



CHAPTEE ONE. 
I. 

To cheer the aged in their gloom, 

And give the youthful heart delight, 

Illumine with historic light 
Events that slumber in the tomb, 

My muse has giv'n in simple rhyme 

This story of the olden time. 

II. 

Where Sacandaga's waters sweep 
Around to Hudson's rolling tide, 
Close by the sloping mountain side, 

Where lofty pines their vigils keep, 

Stand sentinels round home and hearth 
Wherein my story had its birth. 



102 EVEOLEAN. 

III. 

There, 'neatli the spreading maple's shade, 
Where trailing vines each lattice lin'd, 
Through which the morning glories twin'd, 

And streams of golden sunlight play'd, 
The mansion stood in days of yore, 
Close by the Sacandaga's shore. 

TV. 

There dwelt a kind and quiet man, 
"Without ambition, without pride, 
Whose every want was well supplied. 

Whose life in even tenor ran, 
His Eden fair and place of birth 
To him the loveliest spot on earth 

V. 

One cycle in the flight of time, 

A century has pass'd away 

Since tyranny and British sway 
Eeveal'd itself in blood and crime. 

Which waken' d patriotic fire 

In every native son and sire. 



EVEOLEAN. 103 



YI. 



And now full sixty years liacl flown 
Since Bobbin Ray first saw the liglit, 
And forty since the happy night 

He claim' d his Mary as his own. 

The frosts of time were on each brow, 
Still on their cheeks the ruddy glow. 

vn. 

An only son was laid to rest, 

In sight, down by the river side ; 
A daughter, too, one year a bride. 

Her infant sleeping on her breast ; 
But one was left, then aged nineteen, 
Her parents call'd dear " Eveolean." 

YIII. 

With golden tresses, unconfin'd, 
And sweet, expressive violet eyes, 
And lips well ting'd with ruby dyes 

On beds of purest pearls reclin'd ; 
With Grecian features, lily fair, 
She reign'd the queen of beauty there. 



104 EVEOLEAN. 

CHAPTEK TWO. 
I. 

The aged sire at twilight hour 

Sat resting now, his clay's work done, 
And gazed upon the setting sun. 

Not thinking that a foreign pow'r 

Ere morning dawn'd would take his place. 
And hold him in its strong embrace. 

II. 

But lo ! before the midnight gloom 
Had spread its mantle o'er the scene 
A stately form, with lordly mien. 

Attended by his trusty groom, 

Rode down the glen and stopp'd before 
The sturdy farmer's bolted door. 

III. 

And crav'd admission for the night, 
And food and shelter for their needs. 
And forage for their weary steeds ; 

And paid in tempting silver bright. 

Well pleas'd they seem'd, retir'd to rest, 
And deem'd no one would them molest. 



EVEOLEAN. 105 

IV. 

In dreams the stranger saw tlie form 
Of one wlio seem'd a vision fair, 
With sweet expression, modest air. 

And faultless features, mild and calm, 
With deep soul-meaning in her eyes — 
An angel seem'd from paradise. 

V. 

The clock struck two when'mutt'rings low 
Were heard around the farmer's door. 
And stealthy steps of one or more 

Were heard to quickly come and go ; 
For ever-watchful Eobbin Ray 
Well knew the perils of the day. 

VI. 

And from his childhood he had known 
The need of watchfulness at times. 
For such was life that bloody crimes 

By savages were often done ; 
Yet not alone this danger came : 
Great Britain, too, enforced her claim 



106 EVEOLEAN. 

YII. 

To govern, and in doing so 

A cruel war with tliem had wag'd, 
In which the stranger was engag'd, 

Who, waking, heard the noise below. 

He rose and dress'd and call'd his groom ; 
Both arm'd, kept silent in the room. 

VIII. 

At first a gentle rap was heard, 

And others then which louder grew, 
Until the door was split in two. 

At which old Robbin Ray demurr'd ; 
And with a weapon in his hand 
He bravely met the hostile band. 



CHAPTER THREE. 

I. 

But at that moment what he saw 
Alarm'd him greatly, for he knew 



EVEOLEAN. 107 

The British costume from the blue — 
An Indian from a white outlaw. 
A moment he held them at bay, 
Then 'neath an Indian quiv'ring lay. 

II. 

The daughter, shrieking, grasp'd the arm 
The gleaming tomahawk uprais'd, 
The trembling wife in horror gaz'd, 

And could not shield the sire from harm ; 
Nor was it left for her to do — 
The stranger to the rescue flew. 

III. 
" Hold, savage chief !" young Gleiiham said, 

And drew his sword to save his host ; 

One drop of blood your life shall cost ! 
Harm not a hair upon his head ; 

Touch not the matron nor the maid. 

Let no rude hands on them be laid ! 

IV. 

" Yoii know me, sergeant ! I command 
Your lawless band to be withdrawn ! 



108 EYEOLEAN. 

Is this the way that Sergeant Yaughn 
Puts down rebellion in the land ? 
Is this the way attacks you make 
On qniet homes, good order break ? 

V. 

" Is this the way you serve our king, 
And bring dishonor on his cause ? 
By breaking military laws 

Disgrace upon our country bring ? 
Know now from hence and evermore. 
You're not to plunder, but restore." 

YI. 

"Your order, sir, will be obey'd; 
I will command my men from hence, 
And please your host to recompense 

For the destruction we have made. 
YV^hen we shall meet in camp again 
I will repay you and explain." 



EVEOLEAN. 109 

CHAPTEK FOUR. 
I. 
The rosy morning woke to life, 

When on her couch the sunshine smil'd 
With beaming face, all calm and mild, 
And dream'd not of the recent strife 
That woke the peaceful slumbers there 
Of sire and dame and maiden fair. 

II. 

Lieutenant Glenham left in haste, 
With sorrow bade them all good-day, 
And mounted then his iron-grey. 

Which his fine figure so well grac'd. 
He paid the damage done by Yaughn, 
And rode away at early dawn. 

III. 
His course he ker)t o'er hill and dale 

To where King George's forces lay. 

And halted not at close of day 
On his well-trodden Indian trail, 

Until the message, kept conceal'd, 

Was safe on Britain's tented field. 



110 EVEOLEAN. 

IV. 

Lieutenant Glenliam, whom we've made 

The hero of our story here, 

Was brave and noble and sincere ; 
A Briton of the highest grade, 

Well educated and refined. 

With all good sense and wealth combin'd. 

V. 

A model of perfection rare 

For painter and for sculptor, too ; 

With eyes and hair of deep brown hue. 
Complexion rosy, clear and fair ; 

A full rich voice and diction clear — 

We introduce our hero here. 

VI. 

A message came at early dawn. 
And Glenham was the chosen man 
To take the answer back again ; 

And starting met with Sergeant Yaughn, 
Who told the reason why his raid 
On Bobbin Ray was lately made. 



EVEOLEAN. HI 

VII. 

A Tory, friendly to the cause, 
Well suited with colonial life, 
Had laid his plans to make a wife 

Of Eveolean against the laws. 
Against her parents' wish and will— 
'Twas this his mission to fulfill. 



CHAPTEE FIVE. 

I. 

The sun was setting, and the sky 

Gave signs of an approaching show'r ; 
When Nature speaks with grandest pow'r 

In rolling thunder from on high. 
Its advent heralds with the glare 
Of forked lightnings through the air. 

11. 

But in a moment he drew near 
A farmer's dwelling by the way ; 



112 . EVEOLEAN. 

It was the liome of Robbin Ray, 
The place to him in mem'ry dear, 
Where he had love's ideal seen 
In real form — fair Eveolean. 

III. 

Not thinking he would e'er return, 
They met him with unfeign'd surprise, 
And notwithstanding his disguise 

And military manner stern, 

They welcom'd him with kindly cheer. 
And in his presence felt no fear. 

IV. 

In conversation he engaged. 

In which the dame and daughter join'd, 
When Glenham in his way explain'd 

The reason why the war was waged. 
The farmer listened to the end, 
Then said, not wishing to offend : 

V. 

" I hope we soon shall find the way 
To free ourselves from foreign power. 



EVEOLEAN. 113 

To me this seems the darkest hour 
That I have seen for many a day ; 
And happiness is not for me 
Until I find my country free." 

VI. 

The daughter listen'd with respect 

To what her father had to say ; 

Then, in a cheerful, pleasant way. 
She said : " Can England now expect 

To conquer us on our own soil, 

And she upon a distant isle ? 

VII. 

" If our protection is their aim, 

Our freedom can no barrier prove ; 

If mercenary motives move, 
What is that patriotic flame 

That glows for us, but greed of gain ? 

Lieutenant Glenham, please explain." 

VIII. 

A moment Glenham sat amaz'd, 

And look'd into her fair young face ; 



114 EYEOLEAN. 

His patriotism had given place 
To admiration, and lie prais'd 
The j)rinciples by her laid down, 
Condemned the action of the Crown. 



CHAPTEK SIX. 
I. 

The clock struck nine, and Eobbin Ray, 
By labor being sorely press'd. 
Prepared to take his wanted rest. 

When he had shown his guest the way 
Up to his room, set down the light, 
And pleasantly bade him good-night. 

II. 

But sleep on him no influence flung, 

For thoughts then teeming in his brain, 
Till on the roof the patt'ring rain 

For hours in tuneful cadence sung, 
As sweet and soft as zephyr's sigh. 
Or mother's plaintive lullaby. 



EVEOLEAN. 115 



III. 



How sliort the hours of sweetest sleep, 
And sweet the waking hour that brings 
No bitter thoughts, no conscience stings, 

No faults to own, no tears to weep ; 

With mind to highest thoughts applied, 
And every want of life supplied. 

IV. 

When Glenham rose and went below 
He met Dame Ray presiding there, 
Whose glowing face and silv'ry hair 

A study'd made for Angelo ; 

And greetings were exchang'd between 
The mother, him and Eveolean. 

V. 

Then to the dame, as she drew near, 
He said : " I wish to speak with you, 
And when you've heard my story through 

You will not wonder I am here. 

I love your daughter ; could I gain 
Her love, to you I would explain." 



116 EVEOLEAN. 

YI. 

" We're getting old," she said at last, 
With kindly tone and pleasant smile, 
" And could not spare our darling child ; 

But, for your kindness in the j^ast. 
With her 111 grant an interview, 
And then will talk again with you." 



CHAPTER SEVEN. 

I. 

" Miss Eveolean, since you've express'd 
Your views on liberty last night, 
I'll ask," said Glenhaiii, " if 'tis right 

To hold in bondage and unrest 
A truly fond and loving heart 
In which 3'our love would hold no part?" 

II. 

" In all pure loving hearts I claim 
One sacred niche to dedicate 



EVEOLEAN. 117 

To friendship, pure, immaculate. 
And leave its owner free the same, 
AVith right to dispossess me still, 
A tenant occupy at will." 

III. 

" But no, I meant a stronger tie — 

A passion, lasting one for life. 

Such as exists 'tween man and wife ; 
A passion that can never die. 

Endures beyond death's cold, dark flood. 

The ruling attribute of God." 

*' Indeed, kind sir, I would not hold 

Undue control o'er any heart ; 

You're free to come and to depart. 
And need not be by me controll'd. 

I give my thought in language plain : 

If you're in bondage, break the chain." 

V. 

" But how, dear girl, is one to know 
Before a citadel is stormed, 



118 EVEOLEAN. 

Or other warlike acts performed, 
The force requir'd to lay it low ? 
And failing then to make it yield, 
The wounded cannot leave the field. 

VI. 

*' Upon the wounded list I stand, 
And cannot convalescent prove, 
Unless you will return my love. 

I cannot leave your native land. 
Nor can I ever live apart 
From you, the idol of my heart. 

VII. 

"Yes, Eveolean, my love for thee 
Forbids all thoughts of my return ; 
For home and lov'd ones I may yearn, 

Yet never shall I cross the sea ; 

My form may sail to that fair shore, 
My soul turn hither evermore. 

VIII. 

*' And when my bark would anchor there, 
To meet old friends no joy would bring ; 



EVEOLEAN. 119 

They'd find me but a shatter'd thing, 
A prey to passion and despair ; 

Leave me to wander through that isle, 
My spirit with thee yet the while. 

IX. 

" Will Eveolean remember me 
When I am gone? I shall not change. 
Nor will my fancy ever range 

A fairer face or form to see. 

Eemember this when I am gone. 
My heart will beat for thee alone." 

X. 

Then, turning to the dame, he said : 
" Let me your kindness now repay, 
For I must be upon my way. 

By military duty lead ;" 
Took leave, not stopping to explain, 
And soon was on the road again. 



1?0 EVEOLEAN. 

CHAPTEE EIGHT. 
I. 
'Twas afternoon when Eobbin Eay 

Came liome, and told the news he'd heard 
A neighbor who had sent him word 
Had his provisions, grain and hay 
All seized by loyalists, and drawn 
Away by Indians led by Ya-jghn. 

II. 

" I'm sorry now that Glenham's gone," 
The mother said, with look serene. 
"And so am I," said Eveolean ; 

" He is the one to cope with Yauglm. 
But if he's on another raid, 
I think he'll not our place invade." 

III. 
"But why did Glenham leave so soon?" 

The father ask'd in anxious tone. 

" He talk'd with Eveolean alone, 
And did not leave till afternoon," 

The dame replied ; " from her I learn 

'Tis not his purpose to return." 



EVEOLEAN. 121 



IV. 



The day liad pass'd, but war and strife 
Its termination ilone could tell, 
And fainter, fainter down the dell 

Was heard the hum of busy life ; 
And all, by sorrow deep oppress'd, 
At early eve retired to rest. 



But sleep no soothing influence brought 
To rest the mind of Eobbin Eay, 
Until the night had worn away, 

When he the sound of voices caught ; 
He rose and, looking out, espied 
Three wagons by the highway side. 

VI. 

To each attach'd one pair of bays, 
And with each team and driver there 
Six men in Indian costume were ; 

An officer who had Vaughn's ways 
Appear'd commander of the train — 
Were foraging for hay and grain. 



122 EVEOLEAN. 

VII. 

His well-filled barn attraction formed, 
And there the teams at once were sent ; 
In loading half an hour was spent. 

Then, coming to the honse well armed. 
They told him they must take him, too. 
To British camp to get his due. 

VIII. 

In order that no one should know 
That he was to receive his pay 
He must low in the wagon lay, 

And speak not but in accents low ; 
He'd have no reason to complain, 
As they would bring him back again. 



CHAPTEE NINE. 

I. 

Then Bobbin, taking hasty leave 
Of wife and daughter, then in tears- 



EYEOLEAN. 123 

They for liis safety having fears, 
Well knowing these men would deceive — 
Was kindly placed upon the load, 
And driv'n away upon the road. 

II. 

As soon as he had gene, they said : 
" Get ready now, for you must go," 
When Eveolean at once said " No, 

You'll not on women make a raid ; 
We can not leave the place alone, 
'Twill be destroy'd when we are gone." 

* 

III. 
The sergeant said, respectfully : 

" My orders here must be obey'd. 

We must not be at all delay'd ; 
Prepare yourselves immediately ; 

Your silence safety will insure, 

My men will make your house secure." 

IV. 

They started at the early dawn ; 

O'er eastern hills they took their flight, 



124 EVEOLEAN. 

And lialtecl not from morn till niglit ; 
By fleetest steeds tlieir captives drawn, 
Wlio on tlie load well guarded lay, 
And dared not speak the livelong dn^j. 

V. 

On lofty Kayaderosseras 

Lake Desolation passed at noon. 
In the embrace its mirror shone, 

Of bouldered shores all decked with moss ; 
Their panting teams were nigh immersed 
Ere they would halt to quench tlieir thirst. 

YI. 

Descending to the vale below, 

They cross'd the stream that Corinth drains ; 

Then on to Saratoga plains. 
Where now the healing waters flow. 

The High Eock spring e'en then was known 

To Indians, for centuries flown. 

VIL 

When twilight hour had spread her wings 
O'er all the earth and tree and flow'r, 



EVEOLEAN. 125 

Ancl nature made lier magic liour 
For sleep, which restoration brings. 

They journej'd on, round lake and swamp, 
Until they reach'd the British camp. 

YIII. 

A tent they spread and blankets laid. 
Whereon their captives might find rest ; 
And being by fatigue oppress'd, 

They woke not till the sunlight play'd 
On western side of tree and tent, 
Their needed sleep such solace lent. 



CHAPTEE TEN. 

I. 

'Twas late when Glenham reach'd the place 
With answers to dispatches sent, 
And there a sleepless night he spent 

In searching for, but found no trace 
Of one to whom they should be given. 
Till in the morning near eleven. 



126 EVEOLEAN. 

II. 

On liis return lie found a cliange 
Had taken place at Bobbin Ray's, 
That in his absence of two days 

His army'd taken wider range, 

And cross'd the eastern sandy plain 
In search of forage, food and grain. 

III. 

He saw they'd been in mischief there, 
The house was clos'd, the inmates gone, 
And cattle graz'd upon the lawn. 

Where beds of fairest flowers were ; 

On doors and windows boards were nail'd, 
Protecting them from being assail'd. 

IV. 

On finding this place left alone, 

He made more haste to reach the field ; 
And knowing danger lay conceal'd, 

He took a trail but little known, 

And travel'd on throughout the night. 
And reach'd the army at daylight. 



EVEOLEAN. 127 



V. 



Once more upon the tented plain, 
He felt more safe than he had done, 
And resting till the hour of one. 

He rose and dress'd himself again ; 
A fellow officer he found. 
Who told the news then going round. 

VI. 

He said to him : " A strange affair 

Has happen' d while you were away : 

* 

A Tory who had come to stay 
Had brought a perfect beauty there ; 
She and her mother guarded lie 
Within a tent in camj) near by. 

VII. 

" A soldier who had join'd the raid, 
And help'd the Tory steal away 
The family that guarded lay, 

Had sav'd some papers he display'd; 
On one of them this ode was seen : 
' To Liberty, by Eveolean.' " 



128 EVEOLEAN. 

VIII. 

" O Liberty, tliy sacred name 

Stands out to our admiring gaze, 

Upon our banners let it blaze ; 
By all preferr'd to wealth or fame. 

For fame's proud temple is destroy'd 

Where liberty is not er joy'd. 

IX. 

" The word should gild each mountain peak 
And flag that floats on land and sea ; 
Thy name, O God, and liberty, 

The dearest words that man may speak. 
Should ring for ever through the world, 
Till borne by every flag unfurl'd." 



CHAPTER ELEVEN. 

I. 

When Glenham heard what had been done, 
He laid his plans to set them free, 



EVEOLEAN. 129 

Send Eveoleau where she would be 
No more annoy 'd by loyal Munu, 
Who Titiliz'd war's deadly strife 
To force her to become his wife. 

II. 

Upon the field a house well known 
The officers' headquarters were, 
And thither was this maiden fair 

To be convey'd at set of sun ; 

The Tory force a priest had found, 

To have them in strong wedlock bound. 

HI. 

The sunset found the captives there, 
The bride array'd in common dress. 
The family in deep distress. 

The priest commenc'd with fervent prayer, 
Then bade the couple join their hands — 
When Bobbin Ray forbade the bands. 

IV. 

" State your objections," said the priest ; 
"I'll pause if legal they appear." 



loO EVEOLEAN. 

"I know tliat slie's compell'd by fear,"' 
Said Eobbin Eaj, " to say the least." 
" Sir, sucli objections will not hold — 
Proofs wanting she's by fear controll'd." 

V. 

" She need not be, for I am here," 
Lieutenant Glenham shouted then, 
"Who, entering with a band of men. 

Then claim' d the right to interfere ; 
" Hold, sir, the right I now defend, 
Your ceremony's at an end. 

TI. 

" Is this the way jon serve our cause ? 
Your sacred office 3^ou fulfill ? — 
Force one to marry 'gainst her will. 

And break divine and moral laws, 
Which solemnly declare that all, 
Love lacking, are not wed at all ? 

VII. 

" Your carriage waits you at the door. 
Friend Bay, this is your time to fly. 



EVEOLEAN. 131 

Now, Sergeant Yaughn, let them pass by, 
Put up your sword, you'll need no more ; 
In this your valor and renown 
Will satisfy the English crown." 

VIII. 

Then quickly Glenham led the way, 

With Eveolean upon his arm ; 

Her mother, too, without alarm, 
Lean'd on her husband, Itobbin Ray ; 

All seated in the carriage were. 

And driven home with speed and care. 



CHAPTER TWELVE. 
I. 

Now seated in his tent alone, 
A fit of frenzy seized his brain ; 
His thoughts o'erwhelming seem'd again 

Of her he fain would make his own. 
To him the joys of heaven above 
Were nothing to her priceless love. 



132 EVEOLEAN. 

II. 

As leaves that gentle zephyrs stir, 
His hope on slender tenure hung ; 
In mental strains his muses sung 

This rhapsody of love for her, 

In sweet and plaintive language dress'd, 
In frenzied thoughts but half express'd : 

HI. 

" O Eveolean, since I have known 
Thy peerless beauty, priceless worth, 
I prize thee more than aught of earth ; 

Thy love my guiding star alone, 

Thro' dangers past, thro' toil and strife- 
My hope and joy, my light and life. 

IV. 

" If on the scorching desert sand 
In burning thirst I fainting lay. 
One cooling draught I'd throw away ; 

No sparkling fountain near at hand, 
One flowing chalice I'd resign, 
To taste one draught of love like thine ; 



EVEOLEAN. 133 

« 

V. 

" If death's cold hand were on me laid, 

Mj spirit flutt'ring to be free, 

I'd clip its wings with love for thee, 
Till ebbing life again was siay'd. 

And mutual loves of equal birth 

A paradise restor'd on earth." 

VI. 

The morning came, and with it all 

The doubt and danger warfare brings ; 
He soar'd no more on fancy's wings. 

But felt the real when the call, 

" To arms! to arms!" with martial tramp, 
Kesounded through the British camp. 



CHAPTER THIBTEEK 

I. 

The army quickly rallied then, 

Each brave commander at his post, 



134 EVEOLEAN. 

Prepared to meet the coming host 
Of brave and patriotic men, 

Who came with firm and fearless tread, 
By Arnold Gates and Morgan led. 

II. 

With Major Ackland's grenadiers, 
And Williams with artillery, 
Eidesel Phillips and Eraser see, 

With Englishmen, both lords and peers, 
Their forces all in concert join, 
Led on by General John Burgoyne. 

III. 
The heavy guns on Breman's hill, 

Advance proclaim'd on Berais heights ; 

With eyes all fix'd upon their sights, 
The patriots kept calm and still. 

Till from the British lines there came 

One volley, with a flash and flame. 

IV. 

The Continental forces then 

Their fire return'd, with sight so keen 



EVEOLEAN. 135 

That fifty lay upon tlie green ; 
Some were the bravest of their men. 
Four officers both true and tried 
That day with General Eraser died. 

With desperate charge the Britons fell 

Upon the Continentals then, 

With officers and bravest men ; 
While round them rain'd the shot and shell, 

And on each side were all engag'd, 

For hours the fiercest battle rag'd. 

VI. 

In foremost ranks the Indians stood, 
And many a chief and brave was slain, 
Fought hand to hand with patriot men, 

Until the ground was drench'd with blood ; 
The Hessians also join'd the fight, 
Which lasted till 'twas nearly night. 

VII. 

The dead and dying strew'd the field 
When on each side they ceased to fire. 



136 EVEOLEAN. 

And all exliausted did retire, 
Though neither side confess'd to yield ; 
The Britons waited till next day 
For re-enforcements on the way. 



CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 
I. 

'Twas autumn, and the mountain side 

Was deck'd with crimson, green and gold, 
And foliage tinted by the cold 

Fell on the earth, all sear and dried. 
And by the wind was whirl' d away, 
Around the home of Robbin Ray. 

II. 

The evening cool, around the fire 

Were seated sire and dame and maid. 
And news from camp was not delay'd 

That satisfied each fond desire ; 
But Eveolean express'd her fears 
The struggle might still last for years. 



EVEOLEAN. 137 

III. 

If re-enforcements should arrive 
In time to save Burgoyne defeat, 
The victory he might complete, 

That victory he'd failed to drive : 

When nigh o'erpower'd our forces lay. 
If he'd pursued had gain'd the day. 

IV. 

For when the slightest victory's won, 
To make it final and secure, 
And make it one that will endure, 

Blow after blow should follow on 
In quick succession, lest they lay 
And gather strength to gain the day. 

V. 

She finish'd speaking, when the sound 
Of raps was heard upon the door. 
'Twas open'd in a moment more. 

And there an officer they found, 

And welcom'd him with glad surprise — 
They found 'twas Glenham in disguise. 



138 EYEOLEAN. 

VI. 

They knew his voice, and had no fear 
When he was near of danger more ; 
A warmer greeting than before 

Was tender'd him in love sincere. 
They spoke of dangers lately pass'd, 
And fondly hop'd they'd be the last. 

VII. 

And Eveolean felt quite reliev'd 

When Glenham told of Vaughn's sad fate, 
Who with the Tory died of late 

Of wounds in battle they'd receiv'd; 
To save from penalty of crime, 
Death came to their relief in time. 



CHAPTEE FIFTEEN. 

I. 

While they convers'd the cloth was laid, 
And, tea announced, they all sat down ; 



EVEOLEAN. 139 

When Gleuliam said lie liop'd tlie Crown 
Would see tlie error it had made, 
And seek not to subdue by force, 
But take a just and lib'ral course. 

II. 

To this at once the sire replied : 

" Our freedom would a blessing prove, 
And fighting with a race we love 

Akin would seem to fratricide. 
Their claims against this colony 
If paid by us we should be free." 

III. 

To this young Glenham gave assent, 
And seem'd to feel a strong desire 
For peace, and so assur'd the sire ; 

To patriotic views gave vent : 
" If subjugation is their plan, 
I will resign : I'm not the man." 

IV. 
Then turning to the daughter said : 
" I think you've nothing now to fear. 



140 • EVEOLEAN. 

No lurking foe, no savage near ; 
Your Tory persecutor dead, 
I can your safety now insure 
And future happiness secure." 

V. 

She said : " No language can express 
The gratitude we feel to you ; 
And what of sorrow we pass through, 

Or what of joy or happiness 

You may not share, the praise or blame, 
My friendship will remain the same." 

VI. 

" Is friendship then the strongest tie, 
And ruling sentiment with you, 
An offset for my love so true? 

My first pure love that cannot die 

That reigns supreme within my heart, 
Forbidding we should ever part." 

VII. 

She sat a moment wrapp'd in thought, 
Then in a low sweet voice replied : 



EVEOLEAN. 141 



" You figlit on the oppressor's side, 
Have lately 'gainst my people fought ; 
For this my love has been retain'd, 
While gratitude my friendship gain'd." 



Till. 



" If that is all, then promise me, 

If my position I resign, 

Some future time you will be mine, 
Go with me home across the sea. 

I will a splendid home provide 

Your j)arents on the other side." 



IX. 



He paus'd in speaking when he came 
To this, and she with fond sweet smile, 
A glow upon her face the while, 

And thrill that seem'd to shake her frame. 
In sweet and trem'lous tones replied : 
" My friendship is to love allied." 



14:2 EYEOLEAX. 

CHAPTEE SIXTEEN. 

I. 

The morning came. A brighter day 
Had never dawn'd on Glenham yet, 
For he had love's ideal met, 

A star to guide him on his way ; 
Its light fell on love's hol}^ shrine. 
And glitt'ring now would ever shine. 

II. 

Befresh'd by sweetest sleep he rose, 
No troubled dreams disturb'd his rest. 
And cheerfully and quickly dress'd ; 

To Eobbin Ray then did proj)Ose 
That he should bear him company. 
Some Eno-lish friends of his to see. 



'O' 



III. 

To this consented Bobbin Ray, 

And when the morning meal was done 
Their horses, saddled, mounted on ; 

Then to the w^est they rode away 
To where a noble mansion stood. 
Within a grove of forest v/ood. 



EVEOLEAI^. 143 

lY. 

A servant led the way, and said : 

" Sir Arthur Glenham and his friend,"' 
To whom Sir William did extend 

A cordial greeting, and then led 

Them to the room where dinner laid 
Was of the choicest viands made. 

V. 

When seated there the table round, 

Convers'd with freedom and with ease. 

" Our mutual friend must cross the seas," 
He said, " to know the pleasure found 

In social converse which is there. 

But in the colonies so rare." 

TI. 

*' That's true," said Glenham ; " Mister Kay 
Would much enjoy our English life. 
So would his daughter and his wife ; 

I hope to meet them there some day. 
Sir William, have jon ever seen 
His lovely daughter, Eveolean ?" 



144 EVEOLEAN. 

YII. 

" I may have seen her, cannot tell, 
May know by sight the timid fawn ; 
She's mention'd in the raid by Vaughn, 

I think, if I remember well." 

" She is ; 'twas she they stole away. 
Her mother, too, and Mr. Eay." 

VIII. 

"But why was this allow'd to be? 
Were there no officers at hand ?" 
" The one who led the lawless band 

Was sergeant of his company ; 
He and the Tory there engag'd 
Were both kill'd when the battle rao^'d." 



IX. 



" My dear Sir William," Glenham said, 
" I must at once to camp return. 
When you the secret cause shall learn. 

Don't think that you have been betray'd ; 
Still on your kindness I'll depend — 
You know I've always been your friend." 



EVEOLEAN. 145 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 
I. 
They took their leave, and on the way 
He told old E-obbiu of his love, 
And hop^d he would his suit approve, 
'Twould bring for him a happier day ; 
His new commission from the Crown 
For bravery past he would lay down. 

II. 

Then Bobbin Eay gave his consent. 
But did not know what Mary'd say. 
" These women like to have their way," 

He, laughing, said, as on they went ; 

" You can your plans to her make known, 
Then she'll not fear being left alone." 

III. 
When they arriv'd 'twas late at night, 

Yet light and cheerful all within ; 

The mother there, with Eveolean, 
Sat reading by the fire so bright ; 

The supper they had long kept warm, 

Was soon spread out in tempting form. 



146 EVEOLEAN. 

IV. 

Miss Eveolean at once address'd 
Sir Arthur by Sir William call'd, 
Which Kobbin Kay so much appall'd 

The title was by him suppress' d .- 
" You must have ridden far away, 
Or had with friends a pleasant stay." 

V. 

" We did, indeed," he then replied ; 
*' I'll leave it to your father there — 
Were treated to a lib'ral share 

Of all the good things there supplied." 
" All in the fine old English style," 
The father added, with a smile. 

VI. 

'Twas late, and all retir'd to rest, 
Not waiting to converse a while, 
And Eveolean with pleasant smile 

Bade them good-night, with the request 
She might be call'd at break of day, 
As she would see Glenham away. 



EVEOLEAN. 147 



VII. 



'Twas morning, and tlie day was fair; 
When Glenliam rose and went below, 
His every wish they seem'd to know. 

For every thing was ready there : 

The breakfast smoking, coffee pour'd, 
Dame Bay presiding at the board. 

VIII. 

The meal enjoy'd, he then prepar'd 
To leave for camp, for he had one 
Great ruling passion, one alone. 

For which he fate and fortune dar'd ; 
His love for Eveolean the pow'r 
Made him improve the present hour. 

IX. 

And starting ere the sun had shown, 
He reach'd the camp before 'twas night, 
Not falt'ring, knowing he was right, 

At once laid his commission down; 
Then in his courteous, easy style, 
He bade adieu to rank and file. 



148 EVEOLEAN. 

X. 

Then leisurely lie made his way 

Back to the place from whence he came, 

Thought not of fame or honor'd name, 
But principles of right obey'd, 

And ere two suns had rose and set 

With Eveolean again he met. 



CHAPTEB EIGHTEEN. 

I. 

From his official duties free, 

And free from war and deadly strife, 
The reigning motive of his life 

A pleasant home across the sea, 

He begg'd them name an early day — 
The nuptials not to long delay. 

II. 

The prudent dame express'd her fears 
That they might be displeased at last, 



EVEOLEAN. 149 

And griev'd, too, when their home had pass'd 
To other hands, and then shed tears. 
She said : " We may not like, I fear. 
On that account wish ourselves here." 

III. 

" Then name the value of jcmr land 
And jDropertj you here may leave, 
Then let the farm and rent receive ; 

I'll pay the gold for all on hand. 
The title to your lands retain 
In case you would return again." 

rv. 
" In this, I know we cannot doubt 

Your kind intentions and your love 

For Eveolean, and will approve 
Of this your plan when brought about. 

We could not live without our dear, 

Nor would she go and leave us here." 

v. 
" Then name the day, and leave to me 
The details of the nuptials when 



150 EVEOLEAN. 

To see some English friends I've been ; 
Also arrang'd onr voyage at sea. 
I will return with means j)repar'd 
T/) cancel all if life is spar'd." 

VI. 

Then turning to Miss Eveolean 
He said to her : " I must away ; 
Don't look for me until the day. 

I hope that naught will intervene 
To cause delay or you distress 
Or mar our future happiness.'* 



CHAPTER NINETEEN. 
I. 

'Twas night, and on the mountain height 
And cliffs upon the mountain side, 
And through the valley far and wide, 

"Was kindl'd there a flaming light. 

Shone 'round the home of Robbin Eay, 
For 'twas Sir Arthur's wedding day. 



EVEOLEAN. 151 

11. 

He came ; with liim two Englishmen 
And two fine ^English ladies w^ere, 
On coal-black steeds were mounted there ; 

Two Indian princes follow'd then, 
On each bright silver jewels glow'd, 
By each an Indian princess rode. 

III. 

Bright tinted feathers deck'd each head 
And dress in beads and wampum sown, 
Bright silver ornaments there shone 

On raven tress and dress of red ; 

Their milk-white steeds all barded were. 
And made a train of beauty rare. 

IV. 

They enter'd gayly on the lawn 

Fronting the mansion, where they found 
The guests assembled standing round. 

Then into line were quickly drawn. 
With graceful bow and wave of hand 
Drew cheers from the assembl'd band. 



152 EVEOLEAN. 

V. 

Tlie bride was rob'd in spotless wliite, 
Bedeck'd with wreatlis of fairest flow'rs 
And sprays from amaranthine bow'rs 

Made fast her veil of lace so light ; 
One priceless gift, a precious stone, 
Amid her golden tresses shone. 

VI. 

Arrang'd around the bride and groom 

Two bridesmaids and two groomsmen stood, 
All from his parish — Englewood ; 

The Indian maids and chiefs found room ; 
On right and left one couple plac'd, 
The space in front the parson grac'd. 

VII. 

He then commenc'd with fervent prayer. 
And as no one forbade the banns 
He bade the couple join their hands. 

And made the twain a happy pair ; 

" Join'd hand and heart," he said, "for life, 
I now pronounce you man and wife." 



EVEOLEAN. 153 

VIII. 

The jDarents fondly kiss'cl the bride, 
And wish'd both joj and hajopiness, 
And to Sir Arthur did express 

Themselves as pleas'd and satisfied : 
He'd gain'd her hand at fearful cost, 
Tliey'd found a son for one they'd lost. 



CHAPTEE TWENTY. 

I. 

Sir William greeted cordially 

The bride and groom, wish'd them much joy, 
Hoping that nothing would destroy 

Their happiness across the sea, 
And that no grief would ever come 
To them in their grand English home. 

II. 

The bride now kiss'd by all around. 
The happy couple led tlie way 



154 EVEOLEAN. 

Into the dining-room, where they 
The choicest supper ready found ; 
All seated round the table were. 
And help'd to good and lib'ral fare. 

III. 

We will not follow in their train, 
Nor trace their joys or sorrows here. 
Their parting with their friends sincere, 

And parting ne'er to meet aga^n. 

They sail'd at once for England's coast, 
And on their voyage were not lost. 

IV. 

By Glenham's mount, with forest crown'd, 
Where Avon's peaceful waters flow, 
And fountains in the sunlight glow. 

There in a park their home they found — 
That home, the grand ancestral one, 
Left to Sir Arthur, only son. 

V. 
There 'neath the ancient oaken shade, 
'Mid trailing vines and fragrant flow'rs, 



EVEOLEAN. 155 

With singing birds in sliadj bow'rs. 
A paradise on earth they made, 
And from this happy union came 
Three lovely pets for sire and dame. 

YI. 
Like mountain streams that meet and wend 

Their way together to the sea, 

Their waters blending peacefully ; 
So these pure beings to the end 

Dwelt in retirement free from strife, 

Enjoying mutual love and life. 

VII. 

To trace the lives of noble men 
And lovely women is our aim — 
How step by step they rose to fame. 

'Twas Lady and Lord Glenham then; 
At court the grandest couple seen 
Sir Arthur were and Eveolean. 

VIII. 

My harp farewell. One ling'ring strain, 
' One stray note still upon its strings 



156 EVEOLEAN. 

In sweet, melodious accents rings. 
I list to hear tlie sound again 

Sweep down tlie corridors of time, 
In thrilling and pathetic rhyme. 

IX. 

It speaks of spotless life and right, 

Of liberty that will endure, 

Of filial love, affection pure. 
That will the home of age make bright ; 

Of truth, the all-prevailing j^ow'r. 

And justice in the ruling hour. 

X. 

It speaks of joys, of earthly bliss, 
"Where love its sacred mission fills. 
Lasting as the eternal hills, 

Reachinsc to other worlds than this ; 
Our life and light in spheres above, 
"Where love is God, and God is love. 



A FARMER SHOULD STICK 
TO HIS FARM. 



I. 



Far down in a valley, embower'd in shade, 
A cottage stood hidden from sight; 

While over its lattice sweet jessamine 
stray' d, 

Its ample verandahs a cool retreat made — 
A haven of rural delight. 

11. 

A landscape more lovely could never he 
found 
Than lay in that valley so fair ; 
The grand, lofty mountains stood sentinels 

round, 
AVhere lilies and roses profusely abound. 
Their sweet blossoms scenting the air. 



158 A FAliMEll SHOULD STICK TO HIS FABM. 

III. 

And tliere, far awav from the turmoil and 
strife 
Of cities, of commerce and trade, 
The owner had spent many years of his life 

With his dutiful children and beautiful 
wife, 

A snug little fortune had made. 

IV. 

'Twas a cold winter day, and mountain and 
plain 

Were shrouded in deep drifting snow, 
When a traveler, finding all effort in vain 
His course to continue, turned into the lane 

That led. to the cottage below. 

V. 

" A terrible time to be on the highway 1 

If out, some will perish, I fear," 
Said Farmer Jones, clad in his suit of sheep's 
grey. 

As he open'd the door the scene to survey 
The weather-bound stranger drew near. 



A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. 151) 
YI. 

The young man, made welcome by sire and 
dame, 

At once took a seat by the fire ; 
Then told his profession or business and name, 
And that of his firm, which had risen to fame, 

His prospects when they should retire. 

VII. 

Soon tea was announc'd, and the sire led 
the way 

To the dining-room, pleasant and warm, 

Though little attempt was there made at dis- 
play ; 

Three sons and two daughters in comely array 

"Were then introduc'd in due form. 

VIII. 

The storm still continued, the young man re- 
main'd 

Till three days had pass'd since he came, 

And during the time j)eace and harmony 
reign' d, 

While the love of one of the daughters he 
gain'd, 

And consent of the sire and dame. 



160 A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. 

IX. 

It was by them agreed that on his return 

From a tour commercial to wed. 
About him, he said, they need feel no concenij 
And on his arrival the lesson they'd learn 
Of trusting in all that he said. 

X. 

It kept them all busy as they could well be 

To plan for the coming event ; 

They went to the towns round the country 
to see 

Where they could buy cheapest, and spent 
money free, 

And twice to the city they sent. 

XI. 

The neighbors invited, the wedding day set. 

And no preparation delay'd ; 

The young man had written, a friend he had 
met 

Would be there as groomsman to make up 
the set, 

The sister to be the bridesmaid. 



A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. IGl 
XII. 

He came on the day, with fine clothing sup- 
plied, 

"With him was the friend he had nam'd, 

Who'd brought many presents to bridegroom 
and bride, 

The latter a fine set of diamonds, supplied 

By the firm in the city so fam'd. 

XIII. 

The happy time came, 'twas a bright sunny 
day, 

Though winter was still in its prime ; 

The guests that attended fill'd many a sleigh. 

And "haste to the wedding " was heard every 
way, 

In the ring of the merry bells' chime. 

XIV. 

In robes of white satin, with flowers and lace. 

Were the bride and her sister array' d ; 

No paint or pearl powder was needed to 
grace — 

The bright tints of nature that glow'd in 
each face 

Were put there to wash and not fade. 



162 A FAEMEll SHOULD STICK TO HIS FAKM. 

XV. 

The guests all declar'd that they never had 
known 
A happier wedding than this. 
No priest with long visage and sepulchral 

tone, 
But a jolly old magistrate made the twain one, 
Then saluted the bride with a kiss. 

XVI. 

The wedding now over, the party prepar'd 

To leave for the city below ; 
"When the young man acting as groomsman 

declar'd, 
Though the mother had said she could not 

be spar'd, 
. That with them the sister must go. 

XVII. 

But four against one was too much for the 
dame. 

Who yielded reluctant consent ; 
To oppose their wishes she found it was vain. 
They made preparation to take the first train, 

And down to the city they went. 



A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. IGZ 
XVIII. 

At once on arriving the young men v/ere 
told 

The firm was about to retire ; 

The partners were getting too feeble and 
old 

To stand the fatigue and exposure to cold, 

Had gone home to sit by the fire. 

XIX. 

From an agent they purchas'd the stock on 
hand, 

Of the store they secur'd a lease. 
For they knew it to be an excellent stand. 
And drew the best customers known in the 
land, 

And its rent was sure to increase. 

XX. 

This they did, not knowing a crisis prevail'd, 

Or this was a fraudulent sale ; 
Instead of retiring the old firm had fail'd, 
And two of the partners Avere already jail'd, 

The other had given "leg bail." 



164: A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. 

XXI. 

Tliey next leas'd a liouse, 'twas a liigli-stoop, 
brown-stone, 
All furnisli'cl in fine, modern style ; 
For the sisters' and partners' affection had 

grown. 
They'd written the parents the truth to make 
known, 
Inviting them down for awhile^ 

XXII. 

One week had elaps'd since the letter was 
sent. 

So elating to sire and dame. 
To leave for the city was now their intent, 
To see what this raid on the family meant, 

And down to the city they came. 

XXIII. 

Arriving there safely were driven np street 
To their daughters' number and home. 

Intending to make the surprise most com- 
plete, 

They never had written, as do the discreet : 
" Meet us at tlie train when we come." 



A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. 165 
XXIV. 

The sire then alighted and went to the door, 

Intent upon ringing the bell, 

When the door flew open and out rush'd the 
four, 

Delighted at meeting their parents once more, 

And seeing them looking so well. 

XXV. 

Through the house after tea, the parents 
were shown, 

Which, lit, made the grandest display ; 

The sister, now married, must not be alone. 

So the unmarried pair their wishes made 
known. 

The wedding was set for next day. 

XXVI. 

At nine in the morning the wedding took place. 
Then all went to visit the store. 

Where from floor to ceiling, from attic to 
base, 

It was fill'd up with dry-goods in every place. 
And purchasers crowded the door. 



166 A FAEMEE SHOULD STICK TO HIS FAEM. 

XXYII. 

Eeturning, the firm then propos'd to the 
sire 

To make him a partner also ; 
He might come in to-day, to-morrow retire, 
Hold any position that he might desire, 

Have freedom to come and to go. 

XXVIII. 

The daughter secur'd the consent of the 
dame, 
The sons the consent of the sire ; 
They said to the mother : " You know 'tis a 

shame 
For father to labor, now he's old and lame — 
'Tis high time that he should retire." 

XXIX. 

In one short year only from that happy day 

All went to the valley again ; 
They'd sold upon credit and lost all their 

pay, 

And all the sire's money was fritter'd away : 
They'd nothing on which to remain. 



A FARMER SHOULD STICK TO HIS FARM. 167 
XXX. 

In tlie course of his short mercantile career 
He'd been driven to mortgage his farm ; 
And laboring faithfully year after year, 
To get it again of encumbrance clear, 
To this wise conclusion had come : 

XXXI. 

" To one having little or nothing to lose 

A city life might have a charm ; 
The proud and the lazy no doubt such would 

choose, 
"Where they could sell dr^^-goods and hear all 
the news — 
But a farmer should stick to his farm." 



A BRAND FROM THE 
BURNING. 



I. 

Our Greenfield liills are white witli snow, 
To southern climes the robin's flown, 
And in my cottage here alone 

I'm thinking of the long ago, 

When from4he west I made my way 
East o'er Mount Kayaderossera. 

II. 

'Twas on a bright October morn 
That down its eastern slojDe I came, 
And cross'd the stream the same in name, 

That wound through meads and fields of corn, 
And halted at a way-side inn, 
Where they sold whisky, rum and gin. 



A BRAND FEOM THE BURNING. 1G9 

III. 

Since then near sixty years have pass'd, 
And yet my mem'ry serves me well 
To now describe that earthly hell, 

Or den too vile on earth to last ; " 
For no such place can now be found 
By searching all the country round. 

IV. 

Within that room seven men I saw, 
All drinking whisky at the bar, 
The landlord smoking his segar, 

Unmindful of a statute law 
Forbidding liquor to be sold 
To one not twenty-one years old. 

v. 

And there was one such drinking rum, 
And two more dozing by the fire. 
Who were awaken'd by their sire, 

And told to drink and then run home. 
The youths obey'd, then arm in arm 
Went reeling to their home and farm. 



170 A BBAND FKOM THE BURNING. 

VI. 

The rest remain'd, and drinking more, 
A row ensued, but soon was still, 
When blast from horn both loud and shrill 

Proclaim'd the stage coach at the door. 
Two passengers alighted there — 
An aged man and lady fair. 

VII. 

" Some information I would seek," 
The stranger to the landlord said ; 
" My daughter here's engaged to wed 

(But of this pray, sir, do not speak) — 
The gentleman is living near, 
To know his character I'm here. 

VIII. 

A widow's son, his name is Grace, 
He owns the farm they live upon — 
His father's name I think was John. 

He left this only son the place. 

And he's to wed my daughter here, 
If all is right, about New Year." 



A BRAND FROM THE BURNING. Ifl 

IX. 

" I know him well ; lie's just been here, 
But left for home," the landlord said ; 
" I think joull find him there in bed. 

For he's been drinking the past year. 
But there's his mother coming now, 
I think they've had another row." 

X. 

With hasty step the widow came, 
And met the landlord face to face, 
And charg'd him with her son's disgrace, 

His degradation and his shame, 
His cruelty to her, and then 
Turn'd weeping to her home again. 



The aged stranger stood aghast. 

His daughter leaning on his arm ; 
" Thank God," he said, " you're sav'd from 
harm." 

The driver blew another blast, 

They took their seats, he drove away ; 
Thus ended that eventful day. 



THE TRAMP. 



I. 

" Oil ! there's a poor tramp coming round to 
the door ;" . 

And " Here's a poor tramp asking food, 

nothing more." 
" 'Tis only a tramp seeking shelter and rest ;" 

And " Here comes a tramp — what a terrible 
pest!" 

II. 

Such are the expressions we hear every day, 

On the grand boulevard or public highway ; 

For tramps have become such a nuisance of 
late, 

Some lock all their doors and make fast the 
front gate. 

III. 

The lord of the manor and help on the farm 
Keep watch over all to protect it from harm ; 
The dog is set free from his kennel at night, 
To give the alarm and to bark and to bite. 



THE TKAMP. I73 

IV. 

One cold day in winter a tram23 on tlie road 

Call'd just before dark at a farmer's abode. 

His limbs tliey were weak, his clothing was 
thin ; 

A lodging he sought, but they'd not let him in. 

V. 

"But, father," in pity the daughter replied, 

"We've beds in the attic both narrow and wide ; 

Besides there's a lounge in the kitchen so 
warm — 

He'd better lie there than go on in the storm." 



VI. 

And who was this one that was making his 
way 

On foot to his home on that cold winter's day ? 

One who'd serv'd his employers faithful and 
true ; 

They'd fail'd, and in failing paid nothing 
'twas due. 



174 THE TRAMP. 

yii. 

Tliis fact to the farmer in few words lie told. 
Told liirn lie was weaiy ; complaiii'd of the 

cold. 
But he, proud and selfish, bade him go his 

way, 

Then took up his Bible to read and to pray. 

vni. 

In feign'd solemn accents a chapter he read, 

With seeming devotion the evening prayer 
said. 

By the warm, glowing fire, and soft, mellow 
light 

None thought of the tramp on that cold, 
stormy night. 

IX. 

Still later in winter a vision arose 

One night on the farmer in deepest repose : 

A scene sad and thrilling, a room cold and 
bare ; 

'Twas the home of the tramp, but he w^as not 
there. 



THE TRAMP. 175 



X. 



Enslirouded in mist, a pale specter appear d, 

And raising his liand as the bedside he 
near'd, 

Pointed his finger to the scene then in view, 

Said : " Behokl the misery occasion'd by 



you! 



XI. 



" See there the hast light in its socket burnt 
low, 

The smouldering embers give out their last 
glow; 

And there on the table's the last crust of 
bread — 

My wife and my children are freezing in bed. 

XII. 

"Go save them at morn if they live till that 

time, 
Then seek my dead body; repent of your 

crime. 
You'll find it down under the deep, drifting 

snow, 

Prepare then to meet me. Farewell ! Now 
go. 



17G THE TRAMP. 

XIII. 

Tlie Yision in fading 'mid darkness and gloom, 

Left written in liglit on the wall of tlie room 

The one line, including the deep, damning 
sin : 

"Ye saw me a stranger, and took me not in." 

XIV. 

Its author a tramp ; it is said He'd not where 

To lay His fair head with its soft, golden 
hair. 

His disciples the same : of this goodly band 

Not one had a home, neither houses nor land. 

XV. 

Traduc'd, torn and trampl'd, and One cruci- 
fied, 

From cold, want and hunger some sicken'd 
and died. 

And as ages roll'd onward, years pass'd 
away, 

"We see their sad fate in this tramp of to-day. 



RETRIBUTION. 



I. 

" The son that makes his parents' hearts to 

bleed 
Shall have a son who will avenge the deed ; 
So read the maxim which I early learn d, 
Which my attention to this subject turn'd. 

II. 

A man I knew — 'twas in my youthful days — 
Who by his prudent and industrious ways 
Secur'd a home and farm in early life, 
And a fine farmer's daughter for a wife. 

III. 

This union by an only son was bless' d, 
Who, by his parents humor' d and caress' d, 
Became so selfish, it was plainly seen 
He'd rule them both ere he had reach'd 
fifteen. 



178 RETRIBUTION. 

IV. 

And so it proved : before that day had come 
He'd plac'd in jeopardy his father's home. 
In his unprinci23led and sordid course, 
What was denied him he would take by force. 

V. 
The farm he tiU'd, also the grain he'd sown, 
And team he drove he always call'd his own ; 
The swine he fed, and fatlings in the stall, 
Were all his own — at least he claim'd them 
all. 

VI. 

His parents, blinded by parental love. 
By him were guided in every move. 
And when he'd reach'd the age of twenty-two 
He claim'd the whole estate as his just due. 

VII. 

To settle this, and kee'p him with them still, 

The sire agreed, though much against his 
will, 

To deed the farm in order to make peace ; 

For their support the son to give a lease. 



EETRIBUTION. 179 

VIII. 

The rental low at wliicli the farm was laid 
At first an ample living for them made ; 
And all their labor, which was freely done, 
Went to increase the fortune of their son. 

IX. 

Ten years had pass'd, the parents' health 
had fail'd. 

Which on the son so many cares entail'd 

That he sought out, and wedded for her 
wealth, 

A maiden fair, but selfish as himself. 

X. 

This chang'd condition made the parents feel 
That with two tyrants they were now to deal 
Instead of one, as they had done before. 
And home to them could be a home no more. 

XI. 

And so the sire, once owner of the soil, 
Worn down by sickness from incessant toil. 
With feeble wife, whose race was nearly run, 
Became the tenants of their selfish son. 



180 RETRIBUTION. 

XII. 

A vacant cliamber was to them assign'd, 
And, being lame, to tliat tliey were confin'd, 
And there immur'd within that dingy room, 
Long years they liv'd in solitnde and gloom. 

XIII. 

Both dress' d in old and thinly worn attire. 
With scanty food and fuel for their fire, 
A cold, hard bed, a rough, uncover'd floor, 
"Was all they had — the lease allow'd no more. 

XIV. 

At length the mother died, was borne away ; 
The feeble father linger'd for a day, 
Then died alone, and by her side was plac'd ; 
The lease was cancel' d and the son disgrac'd. 

XV. 

For when the aged farmers living near 
Came to jorepare the body for the bier. 
Their indignation could not be suppress'd : 
All clamor' d loudly for the son's arrest. 



RETRIBUTION. 181 

XVI. 

However sliameless some have always been, 

A certain pride exists among all men 

That makes them shrink from just contempt 
and scorn — 

Oft leave the place where they were bred and 
born. 

XVII. 

The son and wife this feeling realiz'd, 
And to escape arrest a scheme devis'd : 
A secret sale of their entire estate, 
And to the West at once to emigrate. 

XVIII. 

Soon with his wife, two daughters and one son, 
On farm in acres numb'ring ten to one 
The one he'd sold, we find them settl'd down 
On Western prairie, near a thriving town. 

XIX. 

With ample means to build and cultivate 

The broad, rich acres of their vast estate. 

With land well stock'd and market near at 
hand, 

They soon became the wealthy of the land. 



1S2 RETKIBUTION. 

XX. 

But from the time they'd sokl their Eastern 
farm 

Their conscious guilt had kept them in alarm ; 

The son, now sire, confiding in the dame, 

Held all the lands he'd purchas'd in her 
name. 

XXI. 

Meanwhile their eldest child and only son 
Became a robust youth and vicious one, 
And like his father claim'd the lion's share 
Of all they rais'd and all they had to spare. 

XXII. 

The mother,, being owner of the land. 

Had given all to plainly understand. 

No matter what the sire might do or say, 

That her dear son and pet should have his 
way. 

XXIII. 

Seven years had pass'd, the son to manhood 

grown, 
The daughters married, left the dame alone. 
And this subjected her to so much care. 
The son sought out a wife and brought her 

there. 



EETEIBUTION. 183 

XXIV. 

The daughters married men engag'd in trade, 
And in the cit}- near their home they made, 
Where oft diseases were malignant found, 
Caus'd by bad water and low, marshy ground, 

XXV. 

At length the daughters both were taken ill 
With a disease that baffled human skill ; 
The anxious mother watch'd by their bedside 
Both night and day, until at last they died. 

XXVI. 

Soon as the daughters in their graves were 
laid, • 

Back to her home the mother was convey'd, 
And stricken down and i^aralyz'd that day, 
Nor si3oke nor mov'd until she pass'd away. 

XXVII. 

Her death the sire in sad condition plac'd, 
For all the land and property embrac'd 
Belong'd to her, to which the son fell heir, 
And made the sire to know he'd nothing there. 



184: EETRIBUTION. 

XXYIII. 

Tlie sire, now left dependent on tlie son, 
His time of unpaid labor now begun. 
The task that lie now set him to perform 
Had to be done in sunshine and in storm. 

XXIX. 

Soon from exj)osure to the heat and cold, 
The sire had grown so prematurely old 
And lame and helpless, he was left alone, 
For his past crimes to suffer and atone. 

XXX. 

A house in which they'd liv'd in early day, 
With leaky roof and plast'ring torn away. 
With scanty food, and without Lght or fire, 
Was by the son awarded to the sire. 

XXXI. 

And there he lay within that cheerless room. 
No light or fire to dissipate the gloom, 
Until, at length, in the dread hour of night, 
A thrilling vision burst upon his sight. 



RETRIBUTION. 185 

XXXII. 

The scene, at first by feeble light supplied, 

Show'd him the room in which his parents 
died, 

His mother's corpse,watcli'doverby his sire, 

As he sat shiy'ring by the smould'ring fire. 

XXXIII. 

The vision chang'd, and from a dizzy height 
Appear'd his parents, clad in robes of white ; 
And there, below the altitude attain'd. 
He saw his own lost wife in darkness chain'd. 

XXXIY. 

" Here," then she said, " for suff'ring we have 
known 

That we would not relie^^e, we must atone." 

Then pal'd the vision with the dawn of day. 

And the sire's spirit with it pass'd away. 

XXXV. 

The son that made his parents' hearts to 
bleed 

Has had a son that has aveng'd the deed ; 

This truthful maxim, mortals, heed it well, 

For this is retribution — this is hell ! 



IMMORTALITY. 



I. 

The liarp that's now silent may waken a 
strain, 
The lips that are mute yet with eloquence 
thrill, 
The rainbow appear with each warm summer 
rain, 
The warm heart, though bleeding, keep 
beating on still. 

II. 

The bright summer sun may illumine the day. 
The pale silv'ry moon beam in beauty at 

night, 
May come and may go, but remain not away ; 
The stars keeping watch from their blue 

vaulted height. 



IMMORTALITY. 187 

III. 

Spring, summer and autumn and winter may 
reign ; 

Bright blossoms bloom yearly and birds 
sweetly sing ; 

They're coming and going to come back again, 

When cold winter meets the embraces of 
spring. 

IV. 

But when mortals we love and reverence here 
Pass on from our presence, returning no 
more, 

We ask why they never again reappear 

To tell where they dwell on that far distant 
shore. 

V. 

We kiss'd the cold corpse of a mother in grief, 

And frantically ask'd where the spirit had 

flown ; 

The answer was given, yet brought no relief : 

" You must go unto her ; she will never 
return." 



188 IMMOBTALITY. 

VI. 

Tlien what sliall we know of the dim vale 
that is 
Beyond death's cold river, beyond mortal 
ken, 
If no one returns from the mansions of -bliss 
To describe them in full to the children of 
men? 

VII. 

If seers in past ages were bless'd with the 
sight 

Of bliss that awaits us, or sorrow and woe ; 
If they walk'd and talk'd with the children 
of light, 

Oh ! why should gross darkness encompass 
us now ? 






THE COTTAGE ON THE 
GRANGE. 



I. 

Tliere stood the cottage on the grange, 
Embower'd in cooling maple shade, 
Where fairest scenes might be Eiirvey'd 

Of valley and of mountain range ; 

And rippling streams that made their way 
Down to the Kayaderossera. 

II. 

I lov'd that spot, that cottage fair, 

There on that smooth and sloping green, 
Where two large lilac trees were seen, 

Their purple blooms scenting the air ; 
That noble fir-tree tow'ring high, 
Admir'd by all as they pass'd by. 



190 THE COTTAGE ON THE GRANGE. 

in. 

There first in spring I joy'd to see 
The gorgeous peony's crimson bloom, 
And pluck' d some once to grace the tomb 

Of ore more dear than life to me ; 
Fit emblem of that lov'd one, they 
Wither'd and fell in one short day. 

IV. 

Yet lonely did that place appear 

To some who pass'd— its blinds of green 

Were seldom ever open seen, 
From month to month, from year to year ; 

" No one at home " they'd often say. 

And quietly pursue their way. 

V. 

To thee, dear cottage on the grange. 
What pleasant recollections cling ; 
Bound thy old well and flowing spring 

What thrilling stories, weird and strange, 
Were told to us, in accents low, 
By lov'd ones, in the long ago. 



THE COTTAGE ON THE GRANGE. 191 

VI. 

Down where the tiny trout-brooks meet, 

And sweetly blend and pass away, 

I've angled at the close of day, 
The waters gliding at my feet — 

Those happy days are pass'd and gone, 

And I am left, alone ! alone ! 

VII. 

O fairest land that I have seen. 

So like the spot where sportive fays 
Once held their conrt, in ancient days. 

Which it was said kept ever green. 
From thee I'd never wish to range — 
My home, the cottage on the grange. 






NIAGARA. 



I. 

Jehovah speaks ; in thee his voice resounds 

Along thy rolling river's rocky bounds ; 

From lake to lake along the distant shore 

We hear thy thunder's loud and ceaseless 
roar — 

The voice of God in nature evermore. 

II. 

Tremendous torrent, ever onward flow, 
Loud echoes waking in deep caves below ; 
Thy floods resistless madly rushing o'er 
Thy wall of rock, which spans from shore to 

shore — 
The works of God in nature evermore. 



NIAGARA. 193 

III. 

So, mighty monarch, let thy thunders roll, 

To spread thy name and fame from pole to 
pole ; 

Bright suns on rising mist and spray restore 

The bow that spans thy yawning chasm o'er — 

A crown upon thy brow for evermore. 

* -JJ- 45- -^ * * 

IV. 

King of cataracts, ten thousand years* have 

flown. 
Thy throne's demolished, silenc'd is thy tone ; 
Thy crown has fallen and thy reign is o'er ; 
From Erie's beach to fair Ontario's shore 
Thy waters silent roll for evermore. 






♦Time estimated for the fall to wear away to Lake Erie. 



INVOCATION. 



I. 

O Thou Eternal Spirit, force unseen, 

Save in Tliy work display' d to mortal ken, 

We bow with rev'rence to thy mighty pow'r, 

And crave Thy presence in the coming hour ; 

Thy strength with nature's failing force com- 
bine, 

And make the present moment truly Thine. 

II. 

Essence of being, only source of life, 

From vales of earth and scenes of mortal 

strife. 
From beds of sickness, poverty and pain. 
Goes up the cry for help, and not in vain. 
The cataract's roar and waves upon the sea 
Ring out their shout of joy and praise to Thee. 



INVOCATION. 195 

III. 

From every plant and from every flower 
Sweet incense rises in summer lionr, 
And every bird tliat soars upon tlie wing 
To Tliee, great source of life, tlieir praises 

sing, 
And every wave that dashes on the shore 
Eepeats to Thee its praises evermore. 

IV. 

In countless worlds that roll in boundless 

space 
Throughout the universe, thy dwelling place. 
In every living thing Thou art the soul — 
The great first cause and spiritual control : 
Be unto us what Thou hast ever been, 
And Thine shall be the glory evermore. 

Amen. 



■ cr^ '— ^-D - 



LAKE COSSAYUNA. 



I. 



Thy mirror, Cossayuna, set 
111 liills of green in fair Argyle, 

"Within my mem'ry lingers yet, 

Like my fond mother's loving smile. 



II. 



Not that my aged eyes have seen 
Thy form lie sleej)ing in the vale ; 

My oar disturb'd thy face serene, 
Or it reflected my full sail. 



III. 



No ; not that I have ever stray'd 
Along thy shores or bath'd in thee, 

Thy many fair green isles survey'd — 
Oh, no ; that joy was not for me. 



LAKE COSSAYUNA. 197 



IV. 



I've heard my mother call thy name, 
Which, like the songs she used to sing, 

Thrill' d as the trumpet's call to fame 

Does one who loves that glitt'ring thing. 

V. 

I know she's often look'd on thee, 

In storm and calm and sunshine bright ; 

Those loving eyes have watch'd o'er me 
Through many a long and weary night ; 

VI. 

And as the shining stars look down. 
Thy depths reflect their field, I see 

Where she, immortal, glory-crown' d, 
Inspires me now to write of thee. 



•56^.^^.r9?' 



^)"«s4'i 



.ie;^?i^isj' 



THE LOST MOTHER. 



I. 

All niglit on Erie's treacherous deep 
Our bark was drifting in the storm ; 

While in the cabin, fast asleep, 

The passengers lay snug and warm ; 

But on the deck in clusters lay 

The emigrants, both night and day. 

II. 

Thither I went at early dawn, 

To note the progress we had made ; 

When my attention there was drawn 
To one group on a pallet laid : 

Six rosy children, sweet and fair. 

Together with their sire, lay there. 



THE LOST MOTHER. 199 

III. 

The dame had risen, and in haste 
"Went to prepare the morning meal, 

Wearing the girdle round her waist 
That did their wealth in gold conceal ; 

For water, which she wanted there. 

She to the gangway did repair. 

IV. 

Through this all night the cold waves swept, 

And on receding left congeal'd 
A slippery surface where she stepp'd. 

While yet the vessel rock'd and reel'd ; 
She paused a moment, look'd around, 
To see her babes all sleeping sound, 

V. 

Then turn'd, the water bucket grasp'd. 
And hurl'd it in the waves below ; 

The rope attach'd she firmly clasp'd, 
So fearful she might let it go ; 

The bucket filled, she down the steep 

Plunged headlong in the foaming deep ! 



200 



THE LOST MOTHER. 



VI. 

"A woman overboard!" the cry 
In German was not understood 

Until too late, they'd pass'd her by ; 
She'd sunk beneath the surging flood, 

And left the father in despair, 

And six small children weeping there. 



^<M^¥^. 



THE ACME OF MISERY. 



I, 

I have known a deep misery that cannot be 
told, 

A misery more lasting and cruel fourfold, 

Than the agony deep when a molar is torn 

From sensitive socket with marrow and bone. 

II. 

I have known a deep misery, mine only to 
know ; 

The cross hath its torture,the gibbet its woe — 

Mine the agony felt by a reptile when thrown 

On live burning coals, with a shriek and a 
groan. 

III. 

I have known a deep misery I cannot ex- 
press, 

And death might relieve me had I suffer'd 
less; 

But torture's grim gauntlet unshielded I've 
past, 

I must live and suifer from this to the last. 



202 THE ACME OF MISERY. 

IV. 

My guardian angel shrunk back in dismay, 
When lie saw liis lov'd charge in his agony 

lay; 

My muse, cold and silent, sunk down in 
despair. 

On seeing the fiends that surrounded me 
there ; 

V. 

"With eye glaz'd and cold swept her hand o'er 
the lyre, 

Made sounds that lack'd sweetness, Prome- 
thean fire ; 

Gave the torrent Niagara, with full rush and 
roar, 

And then became silent — I heard her no 
more. 

VI. 

But, lo ! in the future she rose in her might, 
The star of my being in sorrow's dark night, 
Scaled the vortex of grief and sung on the 

shore : 
"The Acme of Misery, the Fate of Glenmore." 



"LOVE UNDYING!" 



I. 

Breaking forth from the mountain side, 
A stream danc'd to the plains below ; 

Spreading its waters far and wide, 
Beneath a sheet of crusted snow ; 

Rudely forc'd from its narrow bed, 

In its frozen sheet, lay cold and dead. 

IL 

The spring-time came ; the genial sun 
Shone brightly on that dreary scene 

The snow drifts melting, one by one, 
Disclos'd a spot of deepest green. 

Where the streamlet, frozen, ceas'd to flow. 

Was the greenest in that vale below. 



204 "LOVE UNDYING." 

III. 

And as the summer months pass'd on, 
Sweet flowers bloom'd in beauty there ; 

Although no mortal hand had sown 

The germs that rear'd those flowers fair, 

Whose perfume loaded every gale 

Which swept across that lovely vale. 

IV. 

So when the fount of love, unseal'd, 
Flows forth to worship and to bless ; 

If coldly met, repuls'd — congeal'd — 
Seeks from its idol no redress ; 

Spreading o'er all the world it lies. 

Undying — chastens — beautifies. 



^^^-^s^ 



"VALE GLENMORE." 



I. 

Through maple lane to Glenmore vale, 
Where sweetest blossoms scent the air, 

Through meadows green, o'er hill and dale, 
I went to see that i^lace so fair. 

IL *^ 

Its Gothic cottage stood embower'd 
In shady grove, secure from view, 

Above its peaks the fir-trees tower'd, 

And on the green deep shadows threw. 

III. 
The rising sun, with smiling face, 

lUum'd its east'rn front at morn ; 
Its golden rays through every space 

Fell there to brighten and adorn. 

IV. 

A rippling stream encircling flow'd 
Ai'ound the summit where it stood, 



20(3 "VALE GLENMORE." 

And turning eastward, cross' d the road, 
And lost itself in tangled wood. 

V. 
Upon its banks, 'neatli willow sliade, 

An angler sat with rod and line ; 
Below, the shining trout he play'd, 

The bee sang in the celandine. 

VI. 
The purple lilacs wet with dew, 

Bent under it, with modest mien ; 
And snow balls white and violets blue, 

Whose beauty could but half be seen, 

VII. 

Were sprinkled o'er the grassy lawn, 
And by its walks so brightly shone ; 

I stay'd till night from early dawn— 
I'd gladly made that place my own. 

VIII. 

There, from the world's turmoil and strife, 
I'd rest me, as in days of yore. 

And spend a peaceful, happy life, 
Within thy vale, O sweet Glenmore ! 



DIE YOUNG. 



I. 

Die young ! do not live until feeble and old, 
Till friendship is weaken' d, and love it is 

cold ; 
Tliy aged form tremble, thine eyesight grow 

dim; 

Die young! drain life's cup while it's fill'd 
to the brim. 



11. 

Die young! let thy spirit go forth in its might, 

To a life that is real, a home that is bright ; 

"While those that now know thee would wel- 
come thee here, 

Die young! do not live till they hold thee 
less dear. 



208 DIE YOUNG. 

III. 

Die young ! ere tliy tongue in its weakness 

shall fail 
To liuii back resentment wlien brutes sliall 

assail ; 

Tliy manliood be liumblecl, or senses decline, 

Die young! age is liateful, but youth is 
divine. 

IV. 

Die young ! ere thy children's affections 

shall wane, 
Be lost in that maelstrom, the vile greed of 

gain. 
Where honor is shipwreck'd, and hope's 

anchor lost ; 
Die young ! on life's ocean no longer be 

toss'd. 

V. 

For like the old ship which the waves leave 

behind, 
To rot on the shore, in the storm and the 

wind ; 
Deserted by captain and crew she has sav'd — 
Neglected, you'll suffer, in age be enslav'd. 



WE HAVE MET. 



I. ^ 

We have met and we liave parted, 

And we may not meet again ; 
Still the pleasure it imparted 

Ever with me will remain. 
Though no wish to know my hist'ry 

Ever comes to you, I trow. 
To unravel all the myst'ry 

Of a life you may not know. 

II. 

By what compass I was steering, 
Drifting on the sea of life ; 

To what haven I was nearing 
From the scene of mortal strife ; 



210 WE HAVE MET. 

If my bark was riclily freighted 
Witli bright gems of native birth, 

And my soul, with hope elated, 
Held the purest joys of earth. 

III. 
If the frost of time that's stealing 

O'er the locks upon my brow, 
Finds my warm heart's love congealing 

For all earthly idols now ; 
Or like crystal fountains flowing 

From the rocky mountain side, 
While the ice and frost are glowing 

On the ferns above its tide. 

IV. 

I had seen fair earthly creatures. 

And their eyes had look'd in mine. 
When I view^'d thy placid features, 

And mine eyes look'd into thine, 
When I there beheld that vision 

Which to me the real seems 
In the light of love Elysian, 

In the fairy land of dreams. 



WE HAVE MET. 211 



V. 



From that vision I receded, 

Fearing it might change or fade ; 
My receding was impeded, 

Ere a cycle I had made, 
And from here I send a greeting 

To my fair iconoclast. 
For the pleasure of that meeting. 

Which may prove the first and last. 




WE NEED THE MEN. 



I. 

We need the men wlio dare condemn 
The man that robs and wrongs another ; 

The tide of opposition stem — 
Protect the injur'd as a brother 

II. 

Injustice done him make their own, 

Boldly the perpetrator scorning ; 

Stand up for him, stand out alone. 

From morn ti]^ night, from night till 
morning. 

III. 
Stand out though all desert their post, 

Leave them alone to persecution ; 
Such are the men we need the most. 

To mete out justice, retribution. 



WE NEED THE MEN. 213 

IV. 

Their hands iinstain'd by sordid gain, 

Their coffers fill'd by honest labor ; 

Their pure souls free from every stain — 

Ask not the question: "Who's my neigh- 
bor ?" 

V. 

But help the needy, right the wrong, 
And shield the aged from aggression ; 

SujDport the weak, subdue the strong, 
Kesist the tyrant in oppression. 

VI. 

And true to principle and right. 
Be just to men of every nation ; 

Our country's pride and guide and light. 
To fill the highest trust and station. 






MY COUSIN'S LETTER. 



I. 



Don't you remember tlie cottage we pass'd 
On our way to the village green? 

The people that liv'd there are gone at last, 
And the place is a fright to be seen. 



n. 



The gate and porch are all torn down 
By children who go there to play ; 

But oh, the excitement there was in town 
The day the people mov'd away. 



HI. 



The old man, they say, had fail'd in his time, 
And his landed estate was sold ; 

But his only daughter, then in her prime, 
Had five thousand pounds in gold. 



MY cousin'>s lettee. 215 



IV. 



It was left by her mother, long since dead, 
And the gold was to be jDaid down 

As a bridal gift the day she should wed, 
And the coin was invested in town. 



V. 



The Parkmans here were very rich and grand, 
Their son was from college just through ; 

They plann'd to secure him the heiress's hand. 
The old folks did all they could do. 



VI. 



They made a great feast, reception 'twas call'd, 
On their son's arrival at home ; 

And well I remember that day how I bawl'd— 
The poor weren't invited to come. 

VII. 

Jane, she was there— her father called her 
Jean, 

For he was a Scotchman, you know ; 
A grander looking creature never was seen, 
Dress'd in satin, from top to toe. 



216 MY cousin's letter. 

YIII. 

She wore a necklace of real fine gold, 
And bracelets on her arms so fair, 

A set of pure diamonds, massive and old, 
And a solitaire glitterVl in her hair. 

IX. 

John made proposals to her that night, 

Urg'd her the wedding day to set, 

Pvidinf? home in their chaise in the bright 
moonlight ; 

And daily from that time they met. 

X. 

Soon a rumor got out, like wild-fire spread, 
That the old man had play'd a poor game, 

Gambling in stocks, and sunk all he had, 
"With Jennie's, the first year he came. 

XI. 

When John's mother heard it she couldn't rest 
Till Jennie she could interview, 

When oh, to her horror, the girl confess'd 
The story she had heard was true. 



MY cousin's letter. 217 



XII. 



John, still true to liis love, poor as slie was, 
His parents they tnrn'cl him out of door ; 

And hinted it was not the only cause — 
The girl being lazy and poor. 

XIII. 

The happy day came, 'twas some time in May, 
It's strange I've forgotten the year. 

And all were to start upon that same day, 
Tor John found no business here. 

XIV. 

I was at the wedding, wore :iay green silk 
dress, 

For the poor were invited then ; 

The bridesmaid and groomsman you couldn't 
guess — 

Why, 'twas me and your cousin Ben. 

XV. 

The ceremony over, all kiss'd the bride ; 
The old man wish'd them both much joy. 



218 MY cousin's letter. 

Said, "Your gold may be lost, still you're 
supplied 
>Vitli love that is free from alloy. 

XVI. 

' Where fortunes are lost by changes in trade' 
Exertion the same may restore ; 

But pure first love on the altar when laid 
And lost, is re cover' d no more. 

XVII. 

*' The gold left by your mother, if 'tis lost, 
It's loss gain'd you what's prized in life — 

A loving husband, dinna count the cost — 
Make him a good and faithful wife. 

XVIII. 
*' I would not mar the happiness you feel, 

'By telling here what I have done ; 
And yet there's one thing I should reveal — 

It is my duty to you and John — 

XIX. 

" To all good friends assembl'd here to-day; 
So I'll the long-kept secret tell : 



MY cousin's letter. 219 

Tlie bridal gift's not lost or thrown away, 
I've only sunk it — in tlie well. 

XX. 

" Go draw the gold and tlien my moral draw. 

I used deception — it is riglit ; 
Where men wdll break divine and moral law, 

I put temptation out of sight." 






THE VISION OF GLENMORE, 



I. 

In ancient clays the prophets saw 
Events to come in future time 

By dream or vision, nature's law, 
A priceless gift, a truth sublime. 

II. 

I had a vision or a dream 
Which seem'd reality to me ; 

In writing now I make my theme, 
And leave that question then to thee. 

III. 

From night's dull round of weary hours 
I dream'd I rose at early dawn, 

Into a porch o'errun with flowers 
My easy chair was quickly drawn. 



THE VISION OF CxLENMOEE. 221 

IV. 

There balmy breezes fann'd my brow, 
Brouglit to my cheek the ruddy glow ; 

Old age had made my form to bow,* 
My hair, once dark, as white as snow. 



The scene was fair — I ne'er survey'd 
A fairer home and cool retreat, 

A grassy lawn where sunlight play'd. 
And lilacs lent their odor sweet. 

VI. 

The woodbine and the prairie rose 
With morning-glories were entwin'd. 

While in their cells the bees repose, 
Their fragrant blooms the lattice lin'd. 

VII. 

A lovely spot, a broad domain. 
Spread out to view on every hand. 

Was cover' d o'er with golden grain 
Awaiting for the harvest band. 



222 THE VISION OF GLENMOKE. 

VIII. 

I sat alone, alone I stay'd, 

All gone save one, a daughter fair. 
Who canae, and on my brow she laid 

A floral wreath of beauty rare. 

IX. 

I rais'd my head to thank the child, 

When lo, before me who should stand- 
One that I knew, who blandly smil'd, 
And as he took me by the hand 

He said: "Dear sire, I've come to claim 
Or ask you for your daughter now;" 

She rose to greet him, knew his name. 
He took her hand, he kiss'd her brow. 

XI. 

The scene was chang'd by trumpet call, 

I stood in palace hall alone ; 
Deserted by,my lov'd ones all 

I listen' d to the organ's tone. 



THE VISION OF GLENMORE. 223 

XII. 

Ten tliousand glitt'ring pendants liung, 
Eeflecting back tlieir brilliant liglit, 

In lofty tower the chime bells rung, 
And broke the stillness of the night. 

XIII. 

I stood alone, I heard the tread 

Of num'rous feet, the cry "They come !" 

The newly wedded pair that led 
Were those I'd left that morn at home. 

XIV. 

With queenly bearing, perfect grace, 
And all that nature could bestow, 

A perfect form and lovely face, 

With beauty's flush and eyes aglow ; 

XV. 

With diamonds flashing in the light, 

Her light brown hair by pearls controll'd, 

She stood array'd in spotless white. 
With veil and train and wreath of gold. 



224: THE VISION OF GLENMORE. 

XVI. 

In robes of blue and purple now 
That noble form stood by lier side^ 

Witli shining locks and lofty brow, 
And mien denoting manly pride. 

XVII. 

The walls with shining mirrors hung, 
Reflecting forms assembled there, 

The choir its sweetest anthem sung. 
The priests then knelt in silent prayer. 

XVIII. 

The organ peal'd its grandest strains, 
Resounding through that spacious hall, 

A moment, then deep silence reigns. 
And then the trumpet's thrilling call. 

XIX. 

The train advanc'd, the crowd drew near ; 

I stood alone upon that floor. 
And when I met my daughter dear 

The- whole throng shouted, " Hail, Glen 
more! 



THE VISION OF GLENMORE. 225 

XX. 

The robes of crimson velvet now, 
In gold brocade my form enfold, 

Tlie floral wreath upon my brow 

Was chang'd to diamond crown of gold. 

XXI. 

From 'neath that crown hung long grey hair 

In glossy ringlet, silv'ry white, 
And 'neath my brow, furrow'd by care. 

My aged eyes gleam'd clear and bright. 

XXII. 

My right hand grasp'd the burnish'd steel, 
Its golden guard with diamonds set, 

Given by one whose grand appeal 
Seems e'en to thrill my being yet. 

XXIII. 

"Take this, and know that when 'tis drawn, 
'Twill be for justice, truth and right. 

To let the light of reason dawn 

On this our more than moral night. 



226 THE YIHION OF GLENMORE. 

XXIV 

*' Take this, and know tliy day of power 
Has come at last ; tliougli long delay'd, 

This is the day and now's the hour. 
Be just, fear not, nor be dismay'd ; 

XXV. 

"For from this time thy foes shall know 
That for their crimes they must atone ; 

That justice now must strike the blow, 
Though countless thousands live to mourn. 

XXVI. 

*' They've made thee drink the bitter cup, 
Yes, drink it o'er and o'er again ; 

Crush'd thee to earth, we'll raise thee up — 
That cup ye never more shall drain. 

XXVII. 

" Our pledge redeem'd, thy wealth restor'd, 
"We'll kneel together at one shrine, 

Where right to- reason's not ignor'd — 
Let him be God who's most divine. 



THE VISION OF GLENMORE. 



227 



XXVIII. 



" We see the morning sunlight gleam, 
"We know that night's dread reign is o'er.' 

I woke to realize my dream, 
I call the Vision of Glenmore. 




:\ 



THE POET'S DREAM. 



I. 

I dream'd one came to me and said : 

" They're building now your monument." 
From liim I ventur'd to dissent, 

Saying : " My friend, I am not dead." 
" I know you're not," lie said to me ; 
" You'll live your monument to see." 

II. 

" Then show this mighty work of art 
That I may know where 'tis to be ; 
And tell me why 'twas built for me 

Before you leave, before w^e part, 
That I may know what I have done 
Tlius to become the honor'd one." 



THE poet'h dream. 229 

III. 
There, 'iieatli the skys of fair Argyle, 
Through archway of tremendous height, 
On level green, in marble white, 
I saw the monumental pile. 

"Thy birthplace mark'cl," he said; "be- 
hold ! 

Thy deeds in sculptur'd story told." 

IV. 

On massive granite circle wide. 

An octagon in form appear'd. 

And" lofty buttresses adher'd 
To every angle at its side ; 

From each one Gothic arches met, 

And, 'neath, entablatures were set. 

V. 

" On each entablature," he said, 

" Some thrilling song, ' The Poet's Dream.' ''' 
" Lake Cossayuna " was the theme 

Of one my guide distinctly read — 
Read on the left of lofty door, 
"Niagara" and "Yale Glenmore." 



230 THE poet's dee am. 

VI. 

Above were scenes in marble trac'd, 
Like visions or dissolving views ; 
Tliat fade and change ard then renew 

The subject, with reforms embrac'd ; 
That which at first imperfect seem'd, 
Transform'd, corrected and redeem'd. 

VII. 

The laborer left his lowly shed, 
Grasping the fruits of honest toil ; 
The hungry tramp, from whom recoil 

The wealthy ones at home well fed, 

And think but thieves stood disenthrall'd, 
"Where money'd tyrants stood apj^all'd. 

VIII. 

Trade, represented in repose, 

By sudden impulse seem'd to start ; 
And manufactories and art. 

And commerce, too, new life disclose ; 
As quickly fill'd each well-trimm'd sail, 
As 'neath some sudden, prosperous gale. 



THE poet's dream. 231 



IX. 



Above, ill statues true to life, 

The forms of noble statesmen seen, 
Were Jefferson and Clay — serene ; 

Webster — " tlie Godlike " — calming strife 
And party liate, with outstretch'd hand, 
Proclaiming peace to all the land. 

X. 

And there the martyr Lincoln stood. 

To offer compromise again; 

And fail to break the bondman's chain, 
Bather than drench the land in blood ! 

But all in vain ! the die was cast ! 

The fiery ordeal was pass'd ! 

XL 

The shaft that rose of polish'd white, 
One hundred feet, obscur'd the rest ; 
I paused in wonder, and express'd 

A wish to have another sight. 

" If so," my guide then said, " behold 

The apex crown'd with burnish'd gold ! 



232 THE toet'b dueam. 

XII. 

" Over the door the record read : 

The changes wrought like magic seem ; 
Your crisis proof financial scheme,^ 

Your crowning act and noblest deed, 
Has sav'd our country from despair, 
And plac'd that grand memento there." 



* A Scheme of Finance Which AVould Save and 
Make Successful Eveey Countey in the Wobld, 
— Previous to having tliis dream, wliicli I have put 
into verse, my mind had been much exercised on the 
subject of National finance, and while reflecting upon 
the subject, evolved the following, which I have chris- 
tened "Baker's Crisis Proof Scheme of National 
Finance." Let statesmen pause and consider. 

The Authob. 

Let the Government issue all the paper money 
which can be loaned upon good real estate security, 
not to exceed half its lowest appraised value upon any 
length of time, at three per cent, interest, payable in 
gold or silver, the interest to go to pay the National 
debt. Have a loan office established in every county 
in each state, and three loan commissioners appointed 
to appraise estates and loan the money, every dollar 



233 



issued holding two, at least, in real estate, the Gov- 
ernment holding the security, the people who loan it 
(and not the Government) being bound to redeem it 
from circulation, and return it to the treasury of the 
United Stat<'S whenever they wish to stop paying in- 
terest and have tlieir estates free and clear. Have a 
man appointed at every loan office, and provided by the 
Government with a stamp to stamp the date and man- 
ner of its loan upon the back of every note, after it has 
passed into the hands of the borrower before he can 
put it into circulation — the money to be made a legal 
tender for all debts due and demands, except those 

due to the Government for taxes, duties, etc. ; the 
money to be worthless when returned stamped, and 
at once destroyed. 

No government should ever borrow capital ; it is 
the power to create it, and the soil of the country the 
safe and sure basis for all paper currency. The Gov- 
ernment should lend money and take bonds, not bor- 
row and give them, unless the Government is to be 
run in the interest of a few money leaders, regardless 
of the wishes and wants of the great majority. It 
would cost about one-half cent per dollar to make and 
put this money in circulation, and under this arrange- 
ment a crisis could never occur, for the supply could 
ever be made equal to the demand. This would put 
the millions of gold in circulation that is now kept in 
vaults for the redemption cf a baseless paper currency, 
and the basis on which the money is founded would 
still remain productive to its owner, so that no loss is 
incurred. Gold is a produclion ot nature, made money 
by law. Its inflated value is ever augmented by the 
slander of its holders upon all paper currency ; a metal 
whose intrinsic value would not exceed five cents to 



234 



the dollar were it not for the law making it money. 
Still, gold between nations is a convenience, and from 
ignorance of true finance, a present necessity ; but 
paper money for refined, intelligent and responsible 
nations, at home — light, beautiful and convenient, its 
foundations the broad, green earth, rich fields "where 
golden harvests wave and fruits and flowers abound. 

THE END. 






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